


The Warlock's Quickening

by Antares8



Series: The Albion Cycle [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Astral Projection, Fix-It, Gen, Monsters, Sidhe, Swords & Sorcery, Unicorns, Worldbuilding, various illegal activities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-05-28 18:34:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 129,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15055247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antares8/pseuds/Antares8
Summary: Merlin might have come to Camelot to master his magic, not to end the Purge, but he's not going to sit idly by while his kin suffer. Oh no. Whether it's releasing a chained dragon, smuggling sorcerers out of the city, or trying to change Arthur's mind, he's fighting back. Now. Series rewrite beginning after 1X02 featuring Proactive!Merlin. AU.





	1. The Dragon's Gift

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer that applies to entire fic.

Chapter I: The Dragon's Gift

No one looking at the thin, gangly youth making his way through the halls of Camelot would ever guess at the power flowing through his veins. They would not imagine that he would one day command dragons, defeat armies, control the mirror of life and death. They would never guess that the man before them was a legend in the making, a prophecy come to life. They would never dream that his name would be spoken when their own bones had long since dissolved into dust. He was so small for so great a destiny.

But all legends must start somewhere, and this legend begins here, now, with this half-grown lad sneaking through the castle at the heart of Camelot, which is the womb of Albion. For in a land of myth and a time of magic, the destiny of that great kingdom rests on the shoulders of a young man. His name…  _Merlin_.

The young man made his way down the stone stairs, fighting back a sneeze as his feet kicked up dust. The light from his torch made strange patterns in the airborne dirt, tiny eddies of almost unnoticeable wind. Shadows danced along the crude stone walls.

The stairs came to an end. Merlin stopped.

The dragon was huge, enormous, a behemoth of bronze and gold. His wings were folded to his side, but Merlin knew that they were like a bat's, thick leather strong enough to bear the great beast in flight. His tail curled around his forelegs, obscuring but not completely hiding the curving claws. His neck arched forwards as the nobbled head turned to face his guest. Golden eyes seemed to glow in the light of the fire. Even imprisoned, he was absolutely magnificent. Free, he would be incredible beyond belief.

"So you have returned already, young warlock." The dragon—Kilgharrah, he had said his name was—kept his voice level, but the twitches of the tip of his tail belied his apparent calm.

Merlin grinned, nodded. "Of course I'm back. How could I leave you here to rot?" The torch floated in midair, staying close to him but leaving his hands free. The light from the flames reflected off the dragon's scales, which made the dreary cavern brighter than it had any right to be. "Like you said, we're both magic. Kin." The warlock made his way down from his ledge to the very bottom of the cavern.

Kilgharrah was waiting when the human reached the floor. "Here," he said quietly, walking towards the warlock. When he stopped, he presented his chained hind leg to Merlin. The flesh around the binding was raw, the scales rubbed away. It would scar, they both knew that. But perhaps, if the source of the wound were removed now, it would not heal as badly as it might have otherwise.

Merlin raised the sword he'd  _borrowed_  from the prince, whispered a spell. Magic flowed through his veins, lighting his eyes with gold.

The sword swung down.

The cuff shattered, steel and sorcery ripping through sorcery and steel. Merlin had used a bit too much force in his strike; the sword's momentum propelled itself into Kilgharrah's wounded flesh, slipping off the scales into the raw skin. The warlock jerked back, an apology rising to his lips. The dragon, after a brief and involuntary hiss, shook his vast head. "No, Merlin. Do not apologize." Slowly, very slowly, he curved his neck around his body, stared intently at the limb. He flexed his clawed foot, rotated it, stretched. The golden eyes did not blink. "I am  _free._ "

Merlin grinned from ear to ear. "You're free," he agreed.

Suddenly Kilgharrah was spitting fire, the yellow plumes spewing from his mouth onto the ruined chain. Merlin, yelping, scooted back. He fell, but Kilgharrah paid him no heed. Snarling, the dragon released another gush of fire, his claws tearing at the superheated metal, cutting through the white-hot links like warm butter.

He had tried this before, of course. Many times he had turned his strength and flame and magic against the bindings, but it had never worked. Not until today, when a young warlock's spell had set him free.

Merlin goggled at him from his safe ledge of stone, wondering for the first time if releasing an enormous fire-spewing death lizard who had more than enough reason for going on a homicidal rampage throughout the kingdom was a good idea. Sure, Kilgharrah had promised that he wouldn't do anything like that. He'd even said that he would try to keep people from knowing about his freedom, that he certainly didn't want Uther suspecting he'd escaped. Yet now, venting his wrath on the chains which had held him so long, he looked almost like an animal, out of control with rage and madness. For what did Merlin know about the dragon anyways? He'd only been in Camelot for a week (and had in that time saved the prince's life  _twice_ from magical threats that no one else had had any chance of combatting. Seriously, how was Arthur even still alive?), and though he'd snuck out to talk with Kilgharrah every night, they really didn't know each other well. Kin or not, Kilgharrah had no reason to listen to him, and he had no reason to trust Kilgharrah.

The dragon flung the molten remnants of his chains against the wall of the cave. He was breathing heavily, flanks heaving, eyes wide and wild. Merlin didn't dare move.

Finally, the dragon lowered his head. He looked so old and tired then that Merlin was instantly ashamed of his assumptions.

"Are you…?" The warlock didn't even know what he was trying to ask. Was Kilgharrah all right? Of course not! He'd witnessed the massacre, the genocide of his people, then been chained in a dark and lonely cave for twenty years. Twenty years of grief and darkness, and he'd had to face it utterly alone. Merlin's soft heart bled for him.

"I gave you my word, Merlin, not to seek revenge," Kilgharrah reminded him. His voice was thinner than the warlock had ever heard it. He sounded tired. "If Uther Pendragon comes across me, I will kill him without remorse or hesitation. If I meet anyone with the blood of our kin on his hands, I will kill him as well. But I'll not seek them out."

"I'm sorry." And wasn't that just the most inadequate thing ever? But the grief in the dragon's voice, the utter misery…. Even the joy of his freedom was tainted by the memory of how he'd been imprisoned in the first place. Merlin pushed himself up, made his cautious way toward the great dragon.

Kilgharrah replied with the draconic equivalent of a raised eyebrow. He watched, depthless and golden and unblinking, as Merlin once again approached his still-raw leg. The warlock knelt down. His hand hovered above the injury. "Wish I knew healing spells," he sighed.

"One day, you will, young warlock," Kilgharrah promised. He turned both neck and body, lowering his head. They were close enough now that Merlin could feel the heat of the dragon's inner fire.

Kilgharrah pressed his snout against Merlin's shoulder. The boy gaped. The dragon's lips curled into a smile as slowly, hesitantly, Merlin raised his hand. Blue eyes met golden, silently asking if he was sure, and the elder hummed in the back of his throat. Swallowing hard, Merlin gently rested his hand on the dragon's muzzle.

Warmth filled his chest. This was, he realized, probably the first time Kilgharrah had touched someone in twenty years.

No touch, no warmth, no love for  _twenty years…._  Merlin barely suppressed a shudder. He hadn't even been alive that long. He tried to imagine spending the entirety of his life here, in this dank, cold cave with no company, no night or day, no way of telling time except for his weekly feedings, knowing that all his kin—everyone he'd ever loved, Mum and Will and  _everybody_  in the village—had been murdered by the same despot who had imprisoned him. His usually rich imagination failed him. All he knew was that it was awful beyond belief. Instinctively, the young warlock moved a bit closer to the dragon, lifting his other hand until it, too, rested on Kilgharrah's pebbly scales. One hand stayed on the dragon's snout while the other gently ghosted over a part of his neck. The neck scales were bigger, a bit rougher, but still surprisingly smooth under his fingers.

A large part of him wondered if he was going too far, being too familiar, but Kilgharrah did not pull away. He didn't lean in, either, but Merlin thought that must be because of his dignity rather than a lack of enjoyment at his first physical contact in two decades. How awful, how completely and utterly  _awful_  to be so alone for so long….

No, Merlin did not regret freeing the dragon. He couldn't bring back the dead dragons or their lords, couldn't stop the red spiral of violence and hate and death, but this? This, at least, he could do.

"Walk with me, Merlin." Kilgharrah's voice rumbled in his ear. "I have no wish to remain in this cave any longer."

Merlin was a tall youth, but he still had to jog to keep up with the dragon's slow tread. They made their journey in silence, the torch floating above their heads, making the dragon's scales glitter like polished amber.

The air changed. Back where they had left the destroyed remnants of the chains, it was stale and still and tainted with a distinctly reptilian scent, though that smell had been overpowered by the stench of white-hot metal and of flame. Now the air danced about them as a faint breeze blew through the cavern. Even Merlin, with his weak human nose, could smell the mulch and pine needles of the forest that surrounded Camelot. An owl hooted somewhere, soft and low, and a short-lived gust rattled the pine branches.

Kilgharrah was walking more quickly now, neck stretched out before him. Merlin sped up until he was running full speed ahead.

They turned the final corner. Kilgharrah moved with such haste that his tail nearly knocked Merlin down. The warlock, realizing that he had been forgotten, stopped. No need to get in the dragon's way.

The world lay before them, dark green trees and a crescent moon in the star-studded sky. Kilgharrah was running now, the ground shaking under his claws, and when he reached the end of the cave his wings snapped open. His leg muscles bunched as he dropped into a running crouch. Then he was flying, wings pumping wildly, tail streaming out behind him like a banner, blotting out the stars. He skimmed the top of the tree line, then angled himself up, up, up, until Merlin could barely make out his silhouette.

Then Merlin couldn't see him at all.

He stared into the night sky for a long time, smiling quietly, wishing Kilgharrah fortune and whatever happiness he could get after being trapped and alone so long. It was, he thought, a fine night to be free: the air cool and fresh and stirring with only faint breezes; the skies clear of clouds; the stars bright and brilliant.

The warlock inclined his head. Yes, this was a good night indeed. He turned, began to make his way back into the cave.

" _Merlin!_ "

The warlock paused, frowned. He wished he knew how to reply with mind-speech, but he hadn't asked Kilgharrah how. Unable to answer, he turned back around, faced the forests once again.

A dark shape dove from the heavens. Kilgharrah landed surprisingly quietly for such a huge creature, wings folding against his skin. Moonlight pooled in his golden eyes as he solemnly proclaimed, "I am in your debt, Merlin Ambrosius."

_Ambrosius._

He had never heard the name before, never been called anything but Merlin, or (and only his mother was allowed to get away with this) 'my little falcon' and 'my baby bird.' Yet the name felt so familiar, clicking into place without hesitation. Gooseflesh prickled across his skin. The hairs on his neck stood on end. The name seemed to reverberate through his blood, settling into his bones and marrow. His heart thudded painfully in his ears, and though he could not see it, he knew that his eyes now shone with their native gold.

"Why did you call me that?" If the words came out breathier than he'd intended, it was only because he knew that something of great importance had happened. He just didn't know what, and that was a bit of a problem.

"Because," the dragon replied with some asperity, "that is your name."

Merlin was fairly certain that his name was Merlin. Perhaps (and his breathing quickened again) Ambrosius was a surname? All he knew about his father was that the man was a sorcerer who'd had to leave Hunith to keep her safe. His mother refused to say anything more about the man; she didn't want her reckless boy to go off on some months-long quest to find a sorcerer who might or might not be dead, who might be hiding anywhere in Europe, who had evaded the mad king's search parties and who would be endangered if anyone could find him. They would all be in danger, she had warned, for if Merlin found his father and Uther's men found Merlin with his father, or even if they found him searching for his father, Merlin would die. And so, to keep her lover (who would die as well if Merlin led the killers of Camelot to him) and her son safe, she kept them separate, breaking her own heart in the process.

For one wild moment Merlin let himself fantasize that the dragon knew his father, that he could bring together parent and child and make everything right. For a moment, he let himself imagine a family in Ealdor, a son and two parents and maybe even a younger sibling. Preferably a sister—he didn't think his poor mum could handle another son.

Then the same instinct which told him that Ambrosius was indeed his name whispered that Ambrosius was  _his_ name, not one that belonged to anyone else. It was his his his, not his unknown father's, and it had to have something to do with the destiny Kilgharrah had mentioned.

"Since when? I'm pretty sure my mum named me Merlin."

"It has been your name since the dawn of time," Kilgharrah proclaimed. "Merlin may be your name, but it is only the first of many. Ambrosius is who you  _are._ "

Merlin might have known Kilgharrah for only a week, but he already knew the dragon well enough to recognize that he wouldn't get any more information from him. So he settled for an "oh, I see" that he hoped sounded wise and sorcerer-ly.

It didn't.

Kilgharrah's eyes danced with amusement as he returned to his former line of conversation. "As I said, young warlock, I am in your debt. Even if I were not, our destinies are still bound together. Therefore I will give you a gift." He crouched down. "Take the scale above my heart. Keep it close to you at all times. When you have need of me, call thrice my name and I will come."

Merlin didn't move. "What?"

Kilgharrah stepped closer. "You will have need of my council, which means you will need a way to contact me. The scale will give you that ability."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Merlin. You freed me mere days after your arrival of Camelot, asking nothing in return but that I refrain from destroying the kingdom. Take the scale."

The warlock nodded, not trusting himself to speak past the lump in his throat. He made his way forward until he was standing by the dragon's chest. Merlin stopped, glanced up at Kilgharrah. The dragon understood. He lifted a clawed hand, pointed to a bronze scale about the size of a woman's fist. Merlin took ahold of it, nails digging into the dragon's armored flesh. He gave it a little tug, but was not surprised when the scale didn't give. Merlin pulled harder, yanking his arm back as quickly as he could. This time, the scale slid off, leaving a tiny chink in the dragon's built-in armor.

"Farewell, young warlock."

Kilgharrah backed away. His wings opened wide. With a powerful leap, he launched himself into the air.

And then he was gone.

Merlin stayed there for a long time, staring off into the night sky, absently rubbing Kilgharrah's scale. Incredible. Absolutely incredible. Two weeks ago, he'd been a frightened farm boy who hadn't left Ealdor for years. Now he was the personal servant and protector to a future king, a warlock with a spell book and a dragon's scale and a  _destiny._

At least, he thought he had a destiny. It was entirely possible that Kilgharrah had a few screws loose from his twenty years of post-genocide solitary confinement and that this whole 'two sides of the same coin' thing was nothing more than the desperate delusions of a diseased mind. But the dragon had seemed quite sane when he released him….

With a start, Merlin realized that he had made his way back to Gaius's chambers. For a moment he wondered if he'd somehow managed to accidentally transport himself back, but a quick inventory of his recent memories revealed that he'd made his way here by the more mundane method of walking. He'd just been too deep in thought to notice it.

Gaius was waiting up for him. The physician was waiting with his arms folded, eyebrow raised in a way that Merlin already knew meant trouble. The younger man grinned sheepishly. "Hullo, Gaius."

"Hello, Merlin. Your chats with the dragon don't usually last this long."

Merlin was not at all surprised to learn that Gaius knew what he did at night. "That's because we weren't just talking."

Gaius paled. "What did you do?"

"I set him free." He could have lied. He could have made up something, said that they were practicing magic together, that the dragon had demonstrated his fires. But there was something he wanted to ask Gaius, something important. So, before his guardian could do more than gasp in horror, he queried, "Why didn't you?"

Gaius stared at him as though he were mad. "Merlin," he said, "the dragon is the last of his kind. His kin died at Uther's hand. He will seek revenge, not just on Uther but on all Camelot! Are you out of your mind?"

"He promised not to," the warlock said defensively.

Gaius's eyebrows nearly flew off his head. "He promised not to," he repeated, voice saturated with incredulity.

Merlin flushed. When his guardian said it in that tone, it sounded a great deal less convincing. Still, the warlock continued, "It was a condition of me freeing him, the only condition I asked. Kilgharrah agreed. He said he didn't want anybody to know he was free, so he's not going to rampage or slaughter or anything like that."

"Merlin," Gaius pointed out, "you have known the dragon for approximately one week."

The younger man flinched, feeling very small. "I couldn't just leave him there."

"I fear for Camelot," the physician murmured.

"He's been free for a while already and hasn't knocked down the castle or set things on fire or anything," Merlin protested weakly. "I told you, he doesn't want anyone to know he's free. If someone did, Uther would send a hunting party to kill him for the crime of existing and then there wouldn't be any more dragons. Kilgharrah doesn't want to be the last of his breed."

Gaius remained silent for a time. Finally he nodded, sighed, "Perhaps you are right and this will not result in death. But Merlin," he leaned forward, voice earnest, "you  _must_  be more careful!"

Merlin stared. "I was hundreds of feet under the castle. The only person around was a  _dragon,_  and he's hardly going to go to Uther and accuse me of sorcery."

"For once, Merlin, I am not referring to your reckless use of magic. I am suggesting that perhaps you didn't think this through."

"What, was I supposed to leave him there to rot?" the youth demanded.

"You took a terrible risk! Even if the dragon does not voluntarily reveal himself, what if he lets someone see him by accident? What will happen when the guards notice that his cave is empty? Even if the guards don't see anything wrong, someone will investigate when the dragon's food doesn't get eaten! What then, Merlin? You've only been in Camelot a few days. You'll be the obvious suspect."

Merlin blanched. He hadn't thought about Kilgharrah's meals. He… probably should have. Oops.

"Even if no one suspects you," Gaius continued, "Uther will still know that there is a sorcerer on the loose. You haven't seen one of his witch-hunts yet, Merlin, and I pray you never do—but if you keep taking so many risks then you  _will,_  and I might not be able to protect you." He swallowed hard. "I promised to keep you safe, Merlin. Promise me that you won't make an old man's job more difficult than it needs to be."

Merlin looked up at his guardian. Genuine fear was written plain as day across Gaius's face, fear and desperation and a hint of anger. Guilt flooded the young warlock. "I'm sorry."

"Promise me, Merlin," Gaius begged.

"…I'm sorry."

"Why not?" his guardian demanded, not understanding.

Merlin struggled to explain. "I don't…. I could have left Kilgharrah there. I could have let Mary Collins or Sir Valiant kill Arthur. It would certainly have been easier for me. But… I don't think it would have been  _better_." He sighed heavily. "I'm sorry, Gaius, but I can't promise to keep myself safe when a bit of risk can save someone's life or set him free. I just…. All I can promise is that I'll do my best to not get caught."

Gaius slumped. "I don't want to see you on the headman's block. I haven't known you long, Merlin, but you're already dear to me."

Merlin laid a hand on his guardian's shoulder. "And you to me."

The old man smiled, the expression thin and wan. "You should get some sleep, Merlin. You have a busy day tomorrow."

Merlin smiled back. "I will if you do, Gaius. You didn't have to wait up for me, you know."

The physician embraced his ward, held him tight for a moment before releasing him. "Then goodnight, Merlin."

"Goodnight, Gaius."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Merlin Proves Himself a Dragon-Loving Softy and Gaius Starts to Realize What He's Gotten Himself Into"  
> So continues my quest to move my completed/in progress works to AO3. This story is complete on FFN and I will be adding another chapter to this account every Friday.


	2. Pestilence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wild plague appears. Merlin uses common sense. It's super effective!

Chapter II: Pestilence

"A fork in the road? How cliché."

Morgana started. She'd thought that she was alone, that the only people nearby were Arthur and the strangely familiar blond woman, but apparently not.

The man was tall and slender, clad in a navy cloak over gray trousers and a forest green tunic. Pale, long-fingered hands loosely grasped a jewel-topped staff. But the hands were the only part of his skin that Morgana could see. The hood of his cloak was pulled over his head, casting his face into unnatural shadow despite the cloud-filtered daylight around them. Since the man was standing right next to her, Morgana should have been able to see his face despite the cloak's hood, but all she could make out was a pair of yellow eyes that glowed like flame in the dim light.

"Wouldn't you agree, my lady?" the man asked. His unusual eyes glittered with mischief.

Oddly, Morgana was not at all disturbed by the stranger's presence or the obviously magical concealment of his features. She replied easily, as though she'd known and trusted him all her life. "That a fork in the road is cliché?"

"Mm-hmm." The man gestured at the fork in the road ahead of them, where the path Morgana was following (or perhaps not following. She had just been standing around, not walking or riding or moving at all, until the man's sudden and inexplicable appearance) split in two. The right fork led to Arthur, crown gleaming on his head, scarlet cape billowing out behind him. The left lane led to a woman in a red dress. Morgana was too far from her to make out many details, but she could see that the blond was pretty and fairly young, only a few years older than herself. She and Arthur were glaring at one another with unmistakable loathing.

"I don't think it's cliché at all," Morgana told the stranger. "One road can't lead to two places. It's a simple fact of civil engineering."

He chuckled. "That's not exactly what I meant."

"Oh? Then what did you mean?"

"Don't worry about it yet. We've got a long while before you reach that point."

Morgana arched a brow. "It's not that far," she pointed out.

"It's farther than it looks," the man replied. "Besides, there are quite a few… difficulties… between here and there."

Morgana looked. The stranger was right: the road before them was riddled with pitfalls and ruts and puddles and thorns. Dangerous beasts lurked just off the poorly paved surface, their eyes glinting in the light. Morgana desperately wished that she had her sword.

"Ah," said the man, staring at the puddle right in front of them. The ugly pool was practically mud, earth and water mingling to create something slimy and foul. They stood so close to the scummy puddle that it was practically lapping at their toes. "Here's the first of them."

And then the water was boiling up, bubbling, shooting like a geyser into the air, and she glimpsed teeth and slime and foulness in its depths, and snapping jaws lunged at her—

Morgana le Fay woke with a scream.

* * *

 

"Are you absolutely certain it's magic that's causing this plague?" Merlin asked.

"I believe so," Gaius sighed. "I have never seen anything like it before." A rueful smile. "Of course, even if it were not sorcery, I still would not know what caused it. No one knows what causes most diseases, only how to cure them."

"So what causes the ones we do know about?"

"Many things." Gaius smiled at him. "Perhaps I'll make a physician of you yet."

Despite his worry about the plague, Merlin grinned back. "I think I'd like that, Gaius. Let's start with him." And with that, the boy trotted over to a groaning man on the side of the road. Traffic eddied around him, trying to avoid anyone with the telltale white skin and blue-black veins that marked a victim of the plague.

Gaius stopped beaming. "No, Merlin."

"No?"

"It breaks my heart to say so, but… we need to find the cure. I cannot do that if we take everyone in."

Merlin didn't understand. "But you're the physician."

"And that is why I must find the cure. I need to save all the people, and I cannot do that if I take on every patient."

Merlin thought about it for a moment before concluding that, while Gaius had a point about prioritizing, that was still no reason for the  _court physician_  to  _abandon a diseased man to die in the streets_. "Then I'll take care of them."

"I'll need your help to find the cure."

"Really? Because I've only been learning medicine for a month. I know enough to maybe look after the ones who are sick, make them as comfortable as possible, but I don't know a thing about curing a plague that you've never even heard of."

"Merlin—"

"You can't just leave him to die on the streets!" And with that, the young warlock knelt down to the sick man, who had been watching their interactions with a combination of hope and fear. As Merlin helped him to his feet, he choked out his thanks, his gratitude. The younger man smiled. "Don't mention it. I'll get you to the infirmary."

"If the plague keeps spreading at this rate, it will not be long before the victims can no longer fit," Gaius pointed out.

"I'll think of something," Merlin muttered sulkily.

Gaius fixed him with the eyebrow.

"I will!"

Gaius clearly did not approve, but he said nothing as he walked away, outpacing Merlin and his burden in short order. As he half-supported, half-dragged the ill man (whose name was Johnny, he said) along, Merlin thought about what he was going to do. Gaius seemed… not quite content, but certainly willing to let people die around him while he searched for the cure. A part of Merlin understood that: if Gaius was distracted, he wouldn't have time to research and no one would ever get better. On the other hand, he'd been willing to leave a man to die slowly and painfully on the streets of Camelot, abandoned by his friends and family for fear that they would fall ill themselves. That was just….

They reached the infirmary just as Merlin concocted a plan. A good plan, he thought, helping Johnny into a spare cot. The man collapsed, sweat beading on his brow.

"Something for the pain?" he asked, eyeing one of the few medicines whose purpose he already knew.

Johnny nodded.

"Right." Merlin fetched a painkiller, poured it into the other man's mouth. "It has the side effect of making you drowsy, but that's a good thing. You'll need to rest, keep your strength up until we can make you better."

"Thank you."

Merlin smiled, feeling a warm glow inside. "I have to go now. Try to sleep, okay?"

Johnny's eyes were already more than half closed. He nodded vaguely.

Gaius gestured for his ward. "Start—"

"I have to talk to Arthur." Merlin didn't give his guardian the opportunity to respond. He darted from the sickroom into the halls.

Arthur was in the archives, talking with Geoffrey of Monmouth about whether he'd read of any plagues like this. Judging from their expressions, he hadn't.

"Arthur, I have an idea about the plague."

The prince sighed. "Just because you got lucky about Valiant—"

"No, I don't have any idea what's causing it or how to cure it."

"Then what are you here for?"

"Gaius is researching a cure," the manservant explained, "and that means he doesn't have time to take care of the people. Is it possible to set up some kind of emergency hospital where the sick can gather? Even if that doesn't stop it from spreading, they'll be nearby when Gaius finds a cure."

Arthur blinked. "And he can test potential cures on them. That's actually not a bad idea."

Merlin smirked before his face became serious again. "So can you do it?"

"No."

Merlin's face crumpled.

"I don't have the authority," Arthur explained. "You'll have to talk with my father about that."

Merlin's stomach dropped right through his feet. "Talk to the king?" he repeated faintly. And not just any king, but Uther Pendragon himself. Uther, who had instigated the Great Purge. Uther, who had made Merlin grow up in fear, who had haunted his childhood nightmares, who was already far too aware of the warlock's existence. Merlin would rather  _not_  attract more of Uther's attention, thank you very much.

"Don't look like that, Merlin. He doesn't bite."

"Yes. I know. I just thought that since he's the king and your father and since I'm just a scrawny peasant, as you so frequently remind me, you would have wanted to do it yourself. I doubt I'd even get into the throne room."

"Another good point."

"No need to sound so surprised about it, sire."

Arthur's lips twitched. "Actually, Merlin, there's every need to sound so surprised about it. That's two good points in a row. Geoffrey, you need to take note of this historic occasion."

"Of course, sire." The old man stifled a grin.

"Come along then, Merlin." Arthur strode out into the halls.

Uther was going over some form of paperwork when his son and his servant arrived. Merlin thought that the king looked a bit grateful for the interruption. "Yes, Arthur?"

"Father, do you recall the abandoned garrisons in the eastern wing?"

"What about them?"

"No one is using them. Merlin here thinks that the garrisons could be temporarily commandeered as an emergency hospice for plague victims. He has volunteered to care for the sick himself."

Uther considered. "If I were to permit such a thing, the patients would be quarantined. I'll not have them risk my household."

Merlin jerked his head in a nod.

"It would also keep the diseased out of the town," Arthur pointed out. "Perhaps that could stop the plague from spreading."

"It would," Uther agreed, "but tell me. Why not use Gaius's chambers for this?"

He was talking to Merlin. He was asking Merlin a question. The magic-hating king was  _looking_ at him and  _asking him a question._  Merlin told his heart to stop fluttering like a bird's, told himself that he needed to stop flinching whenever Uther turned his gaze on him. He'd gotten better this past month, had stopped fearing whenever the king looked at his son (and consequently on his son's manservant). This, though? This was direct attention from a man he'd been terrified of since he knew what terror was.

But the king had asked him a question, and he had to answer. Merlin swallowed, explained, "Gaius is researching a cure in his chambers. He needs to be able to focus."

Uther accepted that. "Very well. You, boy, start gathering medical supplies. Arthur, send some servants to prepare the old garrisons, then spread word that I'll address the people in one hour's time." He lowered his gaze, dismissing the younger men.

Arthur bowed. Merlin hastily followed suit.

"One last thing," Uther added. "When you have completed these tasks, Arthur, resume your efforts to find and kill the sorcerer responsible."

Merlin managed not to blanch. He bowed again before scurrying out of the room.

Gaius was doing… something… with a flask of… Merlin didn't even know what. The physician didn't look up as he asked, "Come to your senses yet?"

"I'm to look after the sick while you search for a cure."

Gaius nearly dropped his flask. "What?"

Merlin shrugged. "King's orders, Gaius."

"That is not what I meant," the physician snapped. "How exactly do you intend to  _look after_  the sick?"

"Give them a place to sleep, water to drink, stuff like that."

Gaius did not seem convinced. "I see."

Merlin grit his teeth. "I don't know  _how_  to cure them, Gaius. But if I did, would it really be so bad to save dozens of lives?" Before his mentor could answer, he changed the subject. "How is your search for the cure going?"

Gaius gave his ward a long, steady look before replying, "I'm looking at the contents of a dead man's stomach. Whatever is causing this plague has to be ingested. The spell has contaminated the food or water, perhaps both."

Merlin's eyes went wide. "Oh.  _Oh._  That is  _really_  bad."

"Since the disease has only affected people in the lower town, I believe that it's something in the food supply. Nobles don't eat what peasants do."

"That makes sense." Merlin grabbed an armful of rags. "Maybe grains? The nobles get the best flour."

"That is what I thought. I'll need to acquire samples."

"Right." Merlin hastened out the door.

It took him longer than he liked to find the east garrisons. He hadn't been in the castle very long, and it was so big and filled with far too many passages and rooms. Not to mention that the east garrisons were in the least-used part of the castle. Fortunately, quite a few other servants were heading that way. He followed one of the maids into a dust-filled barrack. Other maids were busy fighting against the dust, wiping it off bed frames and sweeping it out the door while others unrolled moth-eaten pallets. Merlin looked around rather helplessly. Other than the bed frames, there wasn't any furniture in the room, nowhere to leave his rags. He eventually settled for leaving them on one of the beds before returning to Gaius's chambers for another load.

The physician wasn't there. Merlin assumed that he was off acquiring a grain sample or something. He considered going for painkillers, but one look at Gaius's shelves was enough to make him back away. Though he recognized the concoction he'd given Johnny, he still didn't know what three-quarters of those vials contained and had no desire to accidentally poison anybody. With that in mind, he grabbed another armful of rags and returned to the barrack.

The castle maids were apparently the most efficient women in the world. Somehow, they had already cleared the sickroom of dust and were now focused on preparing the beds. Still no tables or anything, though. Merlin asked an older woman if she could get some more furniture before leaving once again.

This time, he didn't return right away to Gaius's chambers. Instead, he made his way to the kitchens, where he commandeered one of the carts which waiters used to haul out roast boar and other enormous dishes. He could load painkillers and other medicines onto the cart and cushion them with more rags. He couldn't get the cart all the way to the eastern garrison—too many stairs between Gaius's territory and the abandoned barrack—but this was still much more efficient.

Gaius still hadn't returned. Merlin chewed his lip. He couldn't load his cart with unknown medicines, Johnny was doing as well as could be expected, and he really didn't want to waste time….

"He's going to kill me," the young man muttered, then ran into his own room.

His spell book was lying carelessly on the floor. He'd have to do something about that, find a place to hide it. But for now, he had to find something  _in_  it.

Flip through the pages. Stop. Was this—no, just another false lead. Sigh in frustration, try again. Stop. Here it is!

Merlin ran his finger over the instructions for the spell. A poultice, he'd have to make a poultice. Was it reusable? The book didn't say. Best get supplies for several of them, then. Good thing that shouldn't be too hard—Gaius was very good about keeping his herb supplies stocked.

The physician in question still wasn't back, but this time, Merlin was glad. He really didn't want to get caught. He just  _knew_  that if Gaius found out what he was planning, the man would somehow manage to guilt him into  _not_  saving lives. How that worked, Merlin wasn't quite certain. He just knew that it would.

The warlock loaded up the herbs, some more linens, and a few bottles of the same substance he'd given Johnny, which he wrapped in the cloths so they wouldn't break.

He spent the rest of the afternoon in much the same fashion, conveying vials and herbs and rags back and forth. His impromptu sickroom filled up with patients in various stages of the illness, groaning and moaning and, yes, dying on his watch.

When the first patient died, Merlin nearly broke down. It took Gwen's calloused hand on his back, her soft soothing words, to hold him together. The maidservant was a godsend, distributing medicines, wiping sweat from brows, directing her fellow servants in their duties. Now she patted Merlin's back and held him as he shook.

Finally, the embarrassed warlock backed away. He knew he looked a mess: cheeks flushed, nose running, eyes reddened, hair sticking up in all directions. "'Scuse me," he mumbled, "I just need to…."

"Of course." Gwen gave him one last pat. "I'll take care of—" She swallowed. "I'll do what I can for her."

"Thanks," Merlin whispered. "You're an angel, Gwen."

The girl shook her head, dark curls bouncing, and went to tend to the dead. Merlin looked after her for a minute, then squared his shoulders and went to look after the living.

He'd stashed the herbs needed for the poultice in his shirt. He didn't have many on him—the rest were still in the sickroom—just enough for a single spell. Hopefully it was reusable, though with the way his luck had been going…. Merlin grimaced. He'd find out soon.

It did not take long to create the poultice. Unfortunately, there was a bit of a problem. The stupid thing  _glowed._

"Of course it does," the warlock grumbled, glaring at the cure as though it had caused the disease. "Of  _course_  it glows."

So he'd need some kind of excuse to send everybody off. Maybe… maybe send them to spread the word about the food supply being contaminated? No. Gaius wasn't certain what exactly carried the contagion. Perhaps…? Yes, that would work. He felt like an awful human being for even thinking of it, but if it got his audience away before more people died, it would be worth it. Besides, he thought with a chill, it was a perfectly legitimate concern.

Stuffing the poultice and its telltale glow into his bag, Merlin returned to the sickroom. Once there, he made a beeline for Gwen, the only other healthy individual in the room. Part of him wondered what had happened to the other maids, but he didn't particularly care where they were as long as they weren't here. "You have family here, right?"

"Yes," she replied. "My dad and I live in the lower town."

"Have you checked on him?"

Brown eyes went wide. "No." Gwen started automatically for the door, but froze in mid-step. "I shouldn't leave. I know I shouldn't, but—"

"Go," Merlin told her. "If it were my mum, I'd already be out the door."

The maid hesitated, glancing at the plague's other victims. Most were sleeping, and the ones who weren't were falling asleep. "Can you handle everything?"

"There's not much to handle," Merlin sighed. "Besides, the others will probably be back soon."

"Right." Gwen nodded once, then jogged from the room. "I'll be back in a few minutes, Merlin."

As long as no one else came in, that would be enough time. Just to buy himself a few extra seconds, Merlin shut the door behind Gwen. If the rusty lock had still been functional, he'd have bolted the door shut.

Heart hammering, Merlin approached Johnny's bed. The man hadn't woken up since he'd been taken from Gaius's chambers. His breathing was shallow and irregular, rattling in his throat. He didn't have long. Swallowing hard, Merlin placed the poultice on the other man's head. Clearly and carefully, he intoned, " _Þu fornimest adl fram guman_!"

The poultice's glow brightened. Little flecks of golden light misted off of it, made their way into Johnny's skin. The man gave a low groan. The paleness didn't fade from his skin, but the black veins seemed a bit less prominent, and he was definitely breathing easier. The awful death-rattle was gone.

The book had recommended that the poultice remain in contact with the patient for at least a minute after the healing spell was invoked. Merlin counted to sixty, then, fearing he'd counted too fast, went on to a hundred. Shaking hands removed the remedy from Johnny's brow, moved onto the next patient.

It turned out that the poultice  _did_  have more than one shot. The next patient, a somewhat portly middle-aged woman, inhaled the same golden mist. She, too, breathed more easily.

Merlin managed to cure four more people before someone pushed the door open. The poultice, its work fortunately complete, shot up to the ceiling. Merlin spun around, nearly tripped over his own feet.

"Am I interrupting something?" Gaius queried.

Merlin sighed with relief. The tension drained from his shoulders. "Oh. Hello, Gaius. I thought you might be Gwen."

"And why, pray tell, did you react so strongly to Gwen's return?"

Merlin managed not to glance up at his poultice, which was crushed almost flat against the ceiling, but it was a close call. His eye twitched a little as he replied, "She's checking on her father. I thought she might have come back."

"I see." Gaius plainly wasn't buying it. "There has been another fatality."

Merlin's heart leapt in his chest. "What?"

"A noblewoman."

"But you said it would only affect peasants!"

"I thought it would only affect peasants," Gaius corrected. "And if it had been caused by some contamination of the food supply, it would have. I need you to come with me to take a water sample."

"But…."

"Unless you're doing something you should not?"

Yes, that was definite disapproval. Oddly, instead of cowing him, that disapproval made Merlin straighten his spine and lower his poultice. "Can you take Gwen with you instead?" He guided the poultice to another patient's brow. " _Þu fornimest adl fram guman_!"

"Merlin!" Gaius cried. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

"No, I'm trying to keep people alive. If you want to do the same, take Gwen with you to get the water sample and find some way of keeping the other maids out."

Ordinarily, Gaius would have argued. He would have made noises about the risk, about caution and sense and  _keep the magic hidden._  But that day, Merlin was as fierce as his falcon namesake. The physician grimaced but accepted defeat. "Very well. But be careful."

"I will." Merlin moved the poultice to another patient, spoke his spell once again. Nothing happened.

The patient didn't move.

Ignoring the chill in his chest, Merlin repeated the spell, spoke it loudly and clearly. Nothing. Probably, he told himself, the poultice probably just ran out of magic. Never mind that it glowed as brightly as before.

Gaius glided over, inspected the patient. The physician sighed, shook his head. "She's dead, Merlin."

The warlock crumpled.

That was how Gwen found them, staring down at the corpse and speaking not a word. "What happened?" she asked.

"She's dead," Merlin explained, turning to face his friend. He didn't step forward, partly because he didn't want to leave the corpse and partly because that might result in Gwen seeing the poultice.

"I believe that there is a contamination in the water supply," Gaius said softly, directing Gwen's attention away from the patient and the poultice on her chest. Merlin's eyes flashed gold. The poultice zoomed under the dead woman's cot. "Would you come with me to get a water sample, Gwen?"

"Merlin, will you be all right if Gaius and I go do that?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so." He smiled sadly. "I just wish it could have been different." If he'd been faster….

"So do I," whispered Gwen, and Merlin saw that her brown eyes were swimming with tears.

Gaius and Gwen left. Merlin returned to his work. He needed to make three more poultices before the job was done, but in the end, he'd managed to work his magic on everybody but two patients. Those two patients were dead. Merlin made arrangements for the corpses to be transported out, at which point he learned that Uther had forbidden the sick peoples' families access to the quarantined zone. To prevent contagion (apparently he hadn't heard that the disease spread through food or water), only Gaius, Merlin, and five maids-turned-nurses were allowed into the eastern garrisons. Gwen and Gaius were off collecting water. The other four nurses were still trying to comfort the hysterical mother of the first deceased, who refused to let any of the girls out of her sight. Her sobs echoed throughout the corridors, and none of the maids could bear to leave her. They really were sorry for not helping Merlin out more, one said as the warlock passed, but the poor mother was just so miserable and everyone was sleeping and this seemed like a more productive use of their time. Merlin assured her that he understood.

All he wanted to do was grab his sleeping clothes and maybe a bite to eat (he knew he should be hungry despite his lack of appetite), but that was not to be. Gwen and Gaius were pouring over one of the physician's books. They looked up as Merlin entered his guardian's chambers, relaxing when they saw it was him.

"There's a  _thing_ in the water," Gwen blurted.

"An afanc," Gaius said. "It's poisoning the water supply. To save Camelot, we must find a way to defeat it."

"You think your books have something like that?"

"I certainly hope so."

And how long would it take Gaius to find a way? Too long. Not to mention there was no guarantee of success. But Merlin could think of someone who ought to know a thing or two about afancs. After all, he'd been around for a thousand years and more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Camelot Acquires a Temporary Center for Disease Control"  
> This chapter was born out of my frustration at how Gaius handled the plague situation. DON'T LEAVE PEOPLE TO DIE IN THE STREETS, GAIUS.  
> Again, the complete version of this story is already up on FFN, as is a large chunk of the sequel. I'll be adding a chapter here every Friday.


	3. Nimueh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The afanc is only a tool of the real threat.

Chapter III: Nimueh

Merlin cut to the chase almost before Kilgharrah had folded his wings. "Do you know how to defeat an afanc?"

One of the scaly ridges above Kilgharrah's eyes lifted, the draconic equivalent of a raised eyebrow. "An afanc?"

"There's one poisoning the water supply. People are dying, Kilgharrah."

"An afanc," the dragon repeated, this time to himself. "Those are creatures of the darkest, most powerful magic. It takes a mage to create one. Whoever sent the afanc is a dangerous enemy."

Merlin groaned. Lovely. The monster (which, according to Gwen, had teeth like swords and claws to match, not to mention poisonous skin and who knew what else) had been sent by something—someone—worse. "Do you think that whoever sent the afanc will show up to defend it?" Because that was just what he needed.

"It is possible, young warlock. However, the fact that she sent an afanc rather than coming herself suggests that she is elsewhere."

"She?" Merlin exclaimed. "You know who did it?"

"No. I have my suspicions, but I know not who did this thing." He leaned back on his haunches, stared up at the cloudy sky. "Do not worry about her now. It is the afanc you must defeat."

"But how?" Merlin wailed. "It's a creature of magic. How can I get rid of it?"

Kilgharrah lowered his great head. "You do not need to face it alone, young warlock. You are but one side of a coin. You will need your other half to defeat this adversary."

"You mean Arthur? Because I'm still not a hundred percent certain he's best-king-ever material."

"Certain or not, young warlock, he is the other side of your coin."

"The duller half, definitely."

Kilgharrah's lips twitched. "If you insist."

Merlin returned to the topic at hand. "So I get Arthur. What are we supposed to do then?"

"The afanc," Kilgharrah proclaimed, "is a creature of two elements. Use its opposites against it."

"But what does that—hey! You can't just fly off like that! Get back here and tell me—"

But Kilgharrah was already gone.

Merlin stared after the rapidly shrinking speck in the sky with an open mouth. He considered calling again with the scale, but he knew the dragon wouldn't respond. Grumbling under his breath about overly cryptic reptiles, Merlin made his way back to the city.

Camelot was frighteningly easy to sneak out of, into, and through. Even now, with twice as many guards patrolling the streets and the populace spooked, he barely needed his magic to break into the castle itself. Merlin wasn't certain if he was grateful for the guards' incompetence or not. On the one hand, he had a feeling he'd be doing a lot of sneaking. On the other, it was rather discouraging to think that the city depended on those red-garbed (seriously, what was up with the red? Did they  _want_  to be seen from half a league away?) morons to keep them safe.

He returned to Gaius's chambers and his own little room, not the sick ward. He'd offered to spend the night, but the other nurses were female. Spending a night with them, even if they were surrounded by sick people (though hopefully not sick for much longer, if Merlin's poultices did their job), was the height of impropriety. Merlin might not care about such things, but the women did. They weren't secret sorcerers, so they had a bit more respect for the rules than someone whose mere existence was illegal.

Gaius was, of course, fast asleep when his ward returned. He'd been asleep when Merlin had left, too. It had been torture to stay up while he was so exhausted, but Merlin had read his magic book (nothing about afancs there) and worked on two more poultices until he could hear Gaius's soft snores.

Now, Merlin sank his heavy body into his pallet. It wasn't the most comfortable of beds, but it was warm and just felt so nice after the day he'd….

"Time to get up, Merlin."

"Wha?" The youth blinked blearily.

"Time to get up," Gaius repeated.

"I know how to defeat the afanc."

"What?"

"Well, sort of," Merlin amended. "I talked to Kilgharrah last night. He said that the afanc is a creature of the elements and that its opposites can destroy it. Oh, and apparently I need the dull side's help. Any idea what that means?"

"I don't know anything about this 'dull side' of yours—"

"Oh, that's Arthur."

"—but I think I understand what the dragon meant about elements." Adopting the tone of a lecturer, Gaius continued, "The four elements are earth, water, air, and fire. The afanc is a creature of earth and water."

"Which are opposite to fire and air," Merlin muttered.

"Exactly!" Gaius's face split into a smile.

"So if we got fire and air, we could defeat the afanc!" Merlin threw himself out of bed. "I've got to tell Arthur!"

Gaius grabbed him by the back of his shirt. Merlin stumbled, glared at the older man. The physician simply smiled. "You might want to get dressed first."

* * *

Nimueh was scrying.

The victims of her plague were waking up, healing. The black faded from their veins, the white darkened back to ordinary skin tones. Their eyes lost their pallor.

Had something happened to her afanc? Frowning, the priestess focused her spell on the beast she had created. It was still alive, swimming through the underground water supply, poison dripping from its skin. Nimueh's frown deepened. If the afanc was still alive, then its victims could only have been healed by a sorcerer. A powerful one, too, mage-level strength, judging from how many were moving about the hastily erected sickroom. Much more powerful than that old traitor Gaius.

So there was a sorcerer living in Camelot, some do-gooder who didn't understand what she was trying to accomplish. Didn't this fool see how perfectly the plague demonstrated Uther's helplessness, his incompetence? Soon the people would have risen up to depose their king and his ill-begotten son. They would have begged on bended knee for magic's return. Anything, they would promise, we'll give you anything to stop the sickness.

And then magic would be free.

But, Nimueh grudgingly admitted to herself, afancs were rather obscure. The mage probably just saw an unknown disease ravaging his or her people and stepped up to help. In her younger days, before The Betrayal, Nimueh would have done the same herself.

The afanc lunged out of the water.

Nimueh's focus returned. Lost in thought, she hadn't noticed two young men entering the catacombs beneath Camelot. One of them was the spitting image of his mother Ygraine, strong and regal and golden. The other was paler, with sharp, waifish features and dark hair. Like Arthur, he clutched a sword and a torch; unlike the prince, he had very little idea of how to grip the weapon. A servant, Nimueh presumed, dragged down here for the extra light he would provide.

The men recoiled at the sight of the afanc, which was baring its teeth at them. Arthur stalked forward, sword at the ready. The servant boy's mouth moved. Nimueh cast the spell which would allow her to hear as well as see.

"Shut up, Merlin!" Arthur bellowed, swinging his sword at the beast.

Nimueh smiled. Did he honestly think he could destroy a creature of magic with a mortal blade?

"The torch!" the servant boy, Merlin, cried. "Use the torch!"

The afanc knocked aside Arthur's blade. Fear crossed the prince's face. He backed away.

Merlin's expression hardened. His mouth moved, but he spoke so quietly that Nimueh could not hear his words.

Wind gusted down the cave, gorging the fire of Arthur's torch into a wall of flame. The wind blew the fireball forward, right onto the afanc. Flame and air met earth and water. The elements collided, cancelling each other out.

The afanc died with a scream.

Nimueh was not often taken by surprise, but this? This surprised her. A servant in Camelot, a sorcerer? Why would he—of course. He was getting close to the royal family. Right now, he could easily kill Arthur, blame the afanc. Nimueh's breathing quickened. She leaned forward, eyes bright with anticipation.

Merlin helped Arthur to his feet. "You all right?"

"I think so. No thanks to you, though, Merlin."

The sorcerer grinned at the Pendragon, who grinned back. There was genuine warmth there, genuine affection—not just from Arthur Pendragon, but from Merlin as well.

It was unthinkable. A  _sorcerer_  had befriended the son of Uther Pendragon. A  _sorcerer_ had saved Arthur Pendragon's life.

" _Merlin,"_  Nimueh spat, the name a curse. Her red-nailed hand swept through the water in her scrying font, breaking the enchantment. Teeth bared, the priestess began to pace. Her sharp, stomping footsteps echoed off the walls of the crystalline cave.

Merlin was a traitor. He had befriended the enemy, even saved the enemy's life. He had thwarted Nimueh, magic's champion, with magic. He would do so again, of that she had no doubt.

He was going to die.

But how to kill a powerful sorcerer? Nimueh briefly considered popping by to let Uther know that oh, by the way, your son's servant Merlin has magic (it wasn't like he could actually catch her, much less kill her. Teleportation was handy like that), but anyone capable of healing thirty-seven people of afanc poisoning before wielding the elements against the afanc itself could easily escape the king of Camelot. She needed a public way to kill him.

It would have to be fast-acting and probably a poison of some kind, as she didn't know what kinds of physical shields the traitor kept on his person. Something obscure, so obscure that a boy so young wouldn't know how to counter it. Mortaeus, perhaps? And, she realized, he would either have to not notice the poison until it knocked him out or be unable to destroy it before consumption. There were two ways to do that.

She could hope that he didn't have any spells to alert him to poison and try to sneak it into his food or drink. Unfortunately, if he did have spells to alert him to poison, he'd survive and know someone was out to kill him. Nimueh knew she could defeat the boy—was she not a high priestess of the Old Religion?—but she wanted him dead and out of the way, not alive and meddling.

Her other option was to make him knowingly drink poison but remain unable to stop its effects without revealing his magic. That would be a bit more difficult, but she knew she could make it work. Now she just needed to figure out how….

Two weeks later, Nimueh carried out her plans. She disguised herself as a serving girl in King Bayard's party. In her disguise, she got ahold of the ceremonial goblet, spread mortaeus poison along its rim. The sorceress smirked. Let Merlin's inexplicable loyalty towards Arthur be his undoing. How very fitting that the traitor should betray himself.

After that, it was child's play to ensure that Merlin drank from the cup. Few boys his age could resist the chance to impress a pretty girl with his heroics, and Arthur's mage was no exception. The dark-haired youth strode through the halls of Camelot, making a beeline for Arthur and the kings.

Nimueh murmured a spell that would render her virtually invisible and followed. She wanted to watch the traitor die.

As she watched Merlin disrupt the peace talks and potentially restart the longstanding war between Mercia and Camelot, Nimueh reached out with her magic. The faded remnants of Gaius's gift cowered before her lightest touch. No surprise there. The traitor had always been weak, barely more than a hedge wizard, and twenty-plus years of abstaining from magic had diminished his abilities even further. The dark-haired girl sitting close to Uther had magic within her, a bud on the verge of blossoming. Pity stabbed at Nimueh's heart. Poor little witch, growing up here in Uther's court. When her powers did manifest (which they should have already. Only iron self-control and a deep-seated fear of possessing magic had kept them at bay thus far), she would be terrified. Nimueh made a mental note to keep an eye on this girl. Perhaps she would hunt Morgause down and ask for her help in training the fledgling witch.

No one else in the hall had magic. There were a few who could learn if they chose to apply themselves, but Gaius and the girl were the only ones who actually possessed the art.

But that was impossible.

She should be able to sense Merlin. She had seen him use magic to defeat the afanc, and  _someone_  had healed the plague's victims. The old traitor lacked the strength; the young witch lacked the experience. She should feel the power rolling off of Merlin. Instead, all she felt from him was an old glamor around his eyes.

" _Besceawodnes clæneu_ ," Nimueh chanted. Her magic bored through the weak old illusion around Merlin's eyes, but she was too far away to see any difference. The witch frowned. " _Guðhafoces eaggebyrd_."

Behind the mirage of blue irises, Merlin's eyes were bright and brilliant gold.

He wasn't using a spell. His true eyes were coin-yellow, an unnatural shade that looked perfectly natural in Merlin's face. Nimueh didn't understand, but fear tickled at the back of her throat. A man with golden eyes, a powerful mage without detectable magic…. It was disturbing, deeply disturbing. It shouldn't  _be_.

Merlin raised the poisoned goblet to his mouth.

Nimueh fought the absurd urge to reveal herself, to dart forward and knock the cup from the fool's hand. She wanted to know who he was,  _what_  he was. But the priestess was no fool. She stopped herself from lunging forward and demanding answers.

For a long moment, Merlin was fine. Then his muscles gave out on him. The young sorcerer collapsed.

Pandemonium erupted. Bayard wanted to know who had poisoned his ceremonial goblet, Uther wanted Bayard's head on a pike, the soldiers on both sides wanted a fight, and Arthur Pendragon just wanted everyone to shut  _up_  and go get Gaius (who he didn't seem to realize was twenty feet away from him) NOW before his idiot manservant went and died on him.

The old traitor pushed his way through the crowd. He checked the sorcerer's pulse, nearly crumpled with relief when he saw that Merlin was safe. Clearly he had no idea that the boy had magic; if he'd known, he'd have let the youth die as he'd let so many of his kin perish. Instead, the physician directed Prince Arthur and a worried-looking servant girl to carry the young sorcerer to safety.

Nimueh followed.

Traitor or not, magic or not, Gaius was still a skilled physician. Nimueh hadn't expected him to recognize mortaeus poisoning, much less to know the cure. But he did recognize it, and soon Arthur was making plans to go find the mortaeus flower to save his manservant.

The mere thought of a Pendragon saving a sorcerer was almost enough to send Nimueh into fits of hysterical laughter.

As the prince left, Nimueh crept closer to Merlin's bedside. She had dropped the spells on her vision; if Merlin's were open, she would see only blue. Nimueh ghosted a finger across Merlin's brow.

Magic.

Merlin had magic, she could finally sense that now, but it was like no magic she'd ever seen or even heard of. His power was like the forest or the ocean or the stars, raw and natural and vast beyond understanding. The boy didn't just  _have_  magic; he was  _made_  of it, much like a dragon or a griffin or a unicorn. He was human—she could sense that his elemental magic was channeled into human spells—but at the same time, he was a creature of magic, and that was impossible.

A changeling? No. She'd felt magic from the Sidhe before. It had been years since that day, but she still remembered the touch of their power. Merlin certainly possessed elements of Sidhe magic, elements she had never felt in a human being, but he was just that: human. Most of his power was natural magic under human control.

Whatever Merlin was (she had the feeling that she ought to know, but the knowledge trickled through her grasp like water through a sieve), he was clearly not immune to mortaeus poison. The boy's face was pale, his hair rapidly dampening with sweat. His eyes twitched rapidly behind their lids. Within mere days, he would be dead and gone.

Unless, of course, Arthur acquired the antidote.

All the gossips agreed that the young prince was a superb athlete, gifted in everything from riding to swordplay to dancing. He could doubtless fight off the beasts in the Cave of Balor, acquire the mortaeus flower, and ride home before Merlin expired.

So Nimueh laid a trap for him.

Like his manservant, Arthur was only too willing to help a damsel in distress. Chivalrous fools, the both of them. Still, that suited Nimueh's purposes perfectly.

Personally, she thought that her weeping and wailing was a bit much. Was the scratch on her arm mildly painful? Yes. Was it enough to reduce any rational person to a quivering mess of tears? No, and certainly not a high priestess of the Old Religion. But, Nimueh reminded herself, she wasn't playing a rational human being. She was a damsel in distress, a poor helpless maid in desperate need of a knight in shining armor.

The prince tied his horse to a nearby stump. "Hello?" he called, uncertain about how to approach the weeping woman.

Nimueh kept up her theatrical sobbing. As the prince cautiously made his way towards her, she rubbed at her eyes to hide the lack of tears.

Arthur was just about to put an armored hand on her shoulder when the cockatrice roared.

The Vates had once told Nimueh that no Pendragon would die at her hand. That was why she had made sure to provoke the cockatrice. It was more the capable of defeating Uther's little prince, and she would be able to watch Arthur's death without defying the prophecy.

Nimueh screamed. Arthur winced at the loud, shrill cry that was far too close to his ears.

"Stay back." Backing away from Nimueh, Arthur sized up the creature. The cockatrice's overall appearance was reptilian. It was covered in scales of gray-black and brown, its skin loose over its compact frame. Four stout, muscular legs ended in thick blackish claws. The tail was unarmored, meant mainly for balance and protection rather than as a weapon. If something ever caught ahold of the beast (not likely, as few animals were stupid enough to hunt cockatrices), its tail would break off and regrow within the fortnight. Twin sails rose from its back. Its neck snaked out before it. The lizard-like head was filled with teeth. Lots and lots of sharp, vicious teeth.

Arthur, apparently deciding that he was far enough from the poor helpless girl, drew his sword. He proceeded to twirl it about in a series of flashy, impractical maneuvers that served no purpose whatsoever. Nimueh arched a brow at that. Did the prince think that her cockatrice would be so impressed by his swordplay that it would just leave him alone? No, it would kill him, its venom congealing his blood within his veins. Then, as his body failed around him, the cockatrice would feast. Arthur's death would be slow and painful.

Nimueh smiled.

The beast reared up on its hind legs, snarling and roaring in challenge. It charged. Arthur held his ground until the last second, then dove beneath the leaping monster. He rolled, somehow managing to not impale himself, and stood. The cockatrice's momentum carried it forward. Its body was meant for brute strength, not agility, and it had to run several more paces before it managed to turn around.

Arthur threw his sword at it.

If Nimueh had not been so incredulous, she would have laughed. The cockatrice was twenty feet away from Arthur. Its hide was an inch thick and armored in rock-hard scales. Did Arthur really think that throwing his sword—his  _spinning_  sword, no less—would do anything other than—

The sword penetrated deep into the monster's flesh, slicing through scales and muscles into its heart. The beast fell to its side, already convulsing with death throes.

That was just—how in the world had that happened? Nimueh wondered wildly. People can't just chuck heavy metal objects at angry creatures of magic and expect to survive! That throw had to violate at  _least_  three laws of nature, not to mention common sense and the rules of probability. And yet, in spite of sanity itself, the cockatrice lay dead.

…was this some sort of  _joke?_

Arthur carried on as though twirling sword tosses of death were perfectly rational. "I'm not going to hurt you," he told Nimueh, sheathing his blade and moving towards her. His eyes focused on her red arms, the claw marks and bruises. "Who did this to you?"

She hadn't expected him to survive this long. Time to make things up. "My master," Nimueh improvised. Her voice quivered a bit. "I ran away from him, but then I got lost." She opened her eyes very wide and fixed that sad blue gaze on Arthur. "Please don't leave me."

"I won't," the idiot prince promised. "I'm not going to."

Hmm. Perhaps there was another way to keep him away from the mortaeus flower. "You'll take me from here?" she sniffled.

"Not yet," Arthur replied. "There's something I need to do first."

Nimueh followed his gaze to an opening in a hill. "Why have you come to the caves?" she asked.

Arthur went to tend his horse. "I'm looking for something," he explained. "It can only be found here."

"What is it?" Nimueh inquired, the very picture of innocence. "I know this place. I could help you."

"It's a type of flower that only grows inside the cave. They're very rare."

"The mortaeus flower?" Nimueh smiled. "I know where they are. I'll show you."

Arthur swallowed it hook, line, and sinker.

There were many places in the cave where the mortaeus flower grew, and many ways to get to those locations. Nimueh led Arthur through the longest, most complicated route she could. Skilled tracker or not, he'd never find his way out of the cave in time to save Merlin—assuming he got out at all.

"There they are," the priestess announced, pointing to a small cluster of orange-yellow blooms. The flowers were growing in a small niche on the wall of the cave. Unfortunately for Arthur, though, there was a yawning chasm between the patch of ground on which he stood and the mortaeus plants. He walked past Nimueh onto a narrow tongue of stone that projected over the huge gap. The rock groaned under his weight.

"Stay back," Arthur ordered. Then, encouragingly, "Don't worry. We'll be out of here soon."

Step. Step. Despite his earlier stunt with the sword, Arthur had sense enough to proceed cautiously, testing the stone to make sure it wouldn't give out under him. Too bad he didn't have enough sense not to turn his back on an enemy.

" _Eorthe, lyft, fyr, waeter, hiesumie me."_

Nimueh didn't bother to speak quietly. She spoke her spell loudly, clearly. She wanted Arthur to know what he was dealing with.

" _Eorthe ac stanas hiersumie me. Ic can stanas tobrytan..."_

"What are you doing?" the prince demanded.

" _...hiersumi me."_

The stone crumbled beneath Arthur's feet.

The prince jumped, pushing himself off the falling rock and slamming into the wall of the cave. His fingers scrambled for a grip. When he found it, he hung there, swaying slightly from his forward momentum. The torch tumbled from his grasp into the drop below.

"I expected so much more," Nimueh sneered.

"Who are you?" the prince growled. His hand slipped. With a grunt, he grabbed wildly at the wall. His legs kicked against solid rock, unable to find a decent toehold.

"The last face you'll ever see," Nimueh told him.

Something hissed. An enormous spider, its foot-long legs covered in hair, scuttled out from its hiding place. "It seems we have a visitor," the priestess noted, observing Arthur's spike of fear with pleasure.

Arthur pulled himself away, scrambling to the side, but the spider was too fast. The prince grabbed his sword, somehow drew it and brandished it at the hairy insect without falling to his death. The spider hissed and spat, jabbed at the sword with its legs and pincers. Arthur flailed about. A lucky blow connected with the spider, sending it tumbling into the depths below.

"Very good," Nimueh chuckled, impressed despite herself, "but he won't be the last. I'll let his friends finish you off, Arthur Pendragon. It's not your destiny to die at my hand."

The priestess turned and walked away, leaving Uther's son to his fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein the Mighty Warrior-Prince of Camelot Embarks on an Epic Quest to Pick a Pretty Little Flower"
> 
> Besceawodnes: sight, vision; strong feminine noun in nominative singular
> 
> Clæneu: true, unencumbered, unfettered, clear; strong adjective in feminine nominative singular
> 
> Besceawodnes clæneu: "unfettered vision"; spell used to see through illusions (my invention)
> 
> Guðhafoces: hawk, eagle; strong masculine noun in genitive singular
> 
> Eaggebyrd: the power or nature of the eye; strong feminine noun in nominative singular
> 
> Guðhafoces eaggebyrd: "power of the hawk's eye"; spell for improving day vision (my invention)
> 
> Several lines in the 1X04 section, including the words of Nimueh's 'hiersumie me' spell, are dialogue directly from the episode. According to the Merlin Wiki, that spell translates to "Earth, air, fire, water, obey me. Earth and stones obey me. I have the knowledge to break the stones into pieces. Obey me." The Old English words I used to create the other spells come from www. oldenglishtranslator. co. uk/ Just take out the spaces if you want to visit.
> 
> Does enjoying Nimueh's POV so much make me a terrible person?


	4. Guiding Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur receives unexpected aid in the Cave of Balor.

Chapter IV: Guiding Light

Arthur Pendragon, prince of Camelot, was having a very bad week.

First his useless idiot manservant had gone and gotten himself poisoned. Then his father had pretty much rekindled a costly and unpopular war by throwing the poisoner into prison.  _Then_ his father had forbidden him from saving the aforementioned idiot, except that wasn't  _right_ because that poison had been meant for him and Merlin had known it and he'd drunk it anyways to save his prince, and Arthur was  _not_  going to reward that loyal selflessness with death no matter how incredibly stupid it was. So he'd disobeyed his father and king, which was technically treason, sneaking out of his own citadel and journeying to a smelly cave that might or might not be haunted and was certainly infested with enormous, demonic spiders.

Yes, spiders. He didn't know if the sorceress had conjured them up or enlarged them or if they'd been here all along just waiting for their next meal, but he was currently hanging over a yawning gap listening as spiders the size of his head skittered towards him to feast upon his princely flesh. He couldn't even see the awful things—he'd dropped his torch while trying not to plummet to his death, and the witch had taken her light with her. He was so far into the cave that no sunlight could reach him, and his torch had either gone out when he dropped it or was so far beneath him that he couldn't see the fire.

Arthur had never experienced pitch blackness before. He'd had fire or moonlight or a combination of the two even in the dead of night. Now, it was as though he'd gone blind. Everything was black.

As if to compensate for his loss of sight, his hearing went into overdrive. Arthur wished that it hadn't. He could hear the spiders' soft footsteps as they climbed towards him, hear his body straining to lift himself out of their way. His breath, his heartbeat, the blood swooshing in his veins—every last sound echoed in his ears, underscoring the chitter-chitter of the spiders' mandibles.

Were those things venomous? He'd only seen one before losing his light, and it had certainly looked venomous. Even if the creatures didn't have venom, they were big enough to do a lot of damage, and they were not at all inconvenienced by the darkness around them. If those mandibles got to his neck….

If only he could see! There were handholds above him, there  _had_  to be handholds above him, but he couldn't feel them through his armored hands and could hardly pull off his gloves while hanging from his fingertips over a who-knows-how-long drop. But he couldn't see, so he'd just have to fight off the spiders long enough to find a handhold, then another, then a third and fourth until he was out of the cavern. He'd have to regroup, leave the cave, get a torch, but once he had light he could come back and get the antidote for Merlin. He could do this. He just needed light.

And then there  _was_  light.

It appeared with no warning, no explanation, blossoming out of the very air like some supernatural flower. The silver-blue tendrils of luminescence spiraled out from their origin, curving into a perfect sphere about a foot across. Pale bluish lines flowed around the white globe's surface. The misty, semi-transparent orb floated beside the stunned prince, dispelling the darkness.

Arthur gawked at the blatantly magical sphere for a long moment. Then something hairy touched his neck. He glanced down, saw (saw! He could see again! He'd never appreciated just how wonderful sight could be) a dark arachnid climbing onto him.

The light brightened. Gold veins joined its blue highlights as it flew up through Arthur's shoulder. The orb engulfed the spider, white and yellow and cerulean swallowing the spot of darkness. Though the light had not hurt Arthur, it proved deadly to the arachnid. The creature squealed, shriveled. Its limp form tumbled off the stunned prince's shoulder, fell into the black depths below.

The other spiders, wary from the death of their comrade, slowed their ascent. Pincers clicked malevolently as the beady red eyes took in the new threat. The sphere pulsed in response, hovered protectively near the prince.

Arthur snapped out of his shock. He would have time to think about this later. For now, he had a flower to pick.

Teeth gritted, muscles straining, the prince forced his aching fingers into another handhold, then another, then another. The tiny orange mortaeus flower was five feet away… three… two….

Arthur's hand wrapped around the plant. He pulled.

The light had dropped below him. He spared it a brief glance, saw that it was hovering between him and the spiders. Whenever one of the creatures tried to advance, the orb would swallow it whole. Then the monster would squeal and die and fall, and the light would return to its former place beneath Arthur's feet.

Arthur searched for some way to get to the ground. His arms were killing him; he wouldn't be able to hold himself up much longer. He had to stand or he'd lose his grip and fall. Blue eyes landed on a ledge to his right and slightly above him. It was narrow, but he'd still be able to stand on it, rest his screaming arms.

Sweat dripped into his eyes. His shoulders were on fire, his fingers losing strength. Just another couple of feet, that was all he needed, just another couple of feet and then he could rest….

With a final heave, Arthur pulled himself onto the ledge. He stood, back pressed against the wall, and surveyed his situation.

The light was keeping the spiders at bay. They could get past it if they all charged at once, but, fortunately for Arthur, these arachnids didn't seem any smarter than their tiny counterparts. They hadn't swarmed it yet and probably weren't going to. So he had light, he had protection, and he had the mortaeus flower. Now all he needed was a way out of here.

Well, that was easy enough. Arthur crouched and jumped.

He flew across the gap, landing heavily on the other side. The prince staggered and fell. For a moment he just lay there, gasping and panting, then he pushed himself to his feet. The friendly orb floated over to him, danced about his shoulders, then floated over his head into the tunnel. It stopped there, hovering near the ceiling. Arthur could almost imagine it asking (in a voice that sounded remarkably like Merlin's) what he was waiting for.

The thought made him laugh. It was a weak chuckle, breathless and harsh, but it made the light bob and brighten before swooping back to his face. The prince imagined that the orb was laughing with him. It hovered there, pulsing merrily, then darted away.

"Who sent you?" Arthur asked softly, but the light didn't respond. It simply waited.

The misty orb moved as he did, guiding him through the twisting, turning cave. Once, when Arthur tried to turn left instead of right (he was fairly certain that he'd come that way), the globe swirled around him before returning to the right-hand path. "All right, all right," the prince grumbled.

As he followed his magical guide, Arthur let his thoughts wander. Any idiot could see that the light was supernatural in nature, that a sorcerer had sent it. But who had saved him and why? It certainly wasn't the witch who had led him to the spiders. She had been quite clear that she expected him to die, that she wanted him dead even if he couldn't die by her hand (whatever that meant). This light was benevolent, friendly, even. It had saved him from the spiders, from the darkness, from being lost forever in the labyrinthine tunnels. Even now it was bringing him through the caves.

He supposed that it could be a trap. The light could, in theory, be leading him to a crazy sorcerer who wanted to kill Uther Pendragon's son with his own bare hands. It seemed like an awful lot of unnecessary busywork to the prince, but he supposed that luring him into a spider-infested cave by poisoning his manservant was also impracticably complicated. His father was always telling him how sorcery warped minds and souls; maybe convoluted death traps were symptomatic of sorcerers' magical madness.

But something told him that this beautiful shining light, this beacon that banished the gloom, was different. It wasn't just that the misty orb had saved him. It was the way it stayed close to him even after the spiders were gone, the playfulness with which it had flown around his head. It was the strange, inexplicable sense of familiarity, the instinct of trust, his complete lack of fear when it had appeared. He should have been terrified to see such blatant unnaturalness appearing from nowhere, but he'd only felt wonder and shock and relief.

No. Whoever had sent the light was on his side. He could feel it in his bones.

But why?

All his life, he'd been taught that sorcery was evil, that magic corrupted and destroyed. Once a sorcerer got a taste of power, he was an addict, giving away more and more of his soul in exchange for magical strength. That was why even magical healers had to die—perhaps they had started out with good intentions, but they would inevitably be corrupted by a force that no human being should ever touch.

So, Arthur concluded, the sorcerer (or sorceress, he supposed) who had saved his life must be a relatively inexperienced magic user. His father would say that it would be a mercy to kill him now, before the corruption took root. And yet… and yet….

The light was beautiful. Arthur was well aware that something being beautiful didn't necessarily make it good, but he couldn't believe that the light had been conjured by something purely evil. It was just so… it was so pure, so remarkable. He couldn't quite convince himself that its maker should be destroyed. The thought was treason, but he just couldn't.

He'd never seen beautiful magic before.

Arthur already knew he wasn't going to tell his father about this. How could he? He loved and respected his father more than anyone else, but he knew that Uther wouldn't understand. The king would send witchfinders and bounty hunters to hunt down this sorcerer, and that seemed a poor way to repay someone for saving his life.

Wait. Arthur squinted, picked up his pace. Was that sunlight?

It was! He could see the end of the cave, see the outside world. Grinning widely, the prince ran towards freedom. The magical orb zoomed alongside him.

The witch hadn't killed or taken his horse. The stallion was munching on some grass, completely unconcerned that his master had nearly been eaten by giant spider monsters. He looked up as Arthur entered the clearing, gave a low nicker of greeting.

The light vanished. Arthur was surprised by the pang of loneliness its absence inspired in him. Then the prince shook his head, told himself not to be ridiculous.

Yet though the light was gone, he couldn't get it out of his mind as he rode back to Camelot. It was just so strange and impossible and oddly wonderful, even though it really shouldn't be, because it meant that somewhere, for some reason he couldn't fathom, a sorcerer had deliberately, knowingly chosen to save the son of Uther Pendragon.

Arthur wondered if he would ever meet his mysterious benefactor. He wondered what he would do if he did.

He had to stop and camp for the night, but around noon the next day he passed through the gates of Camelot, tired, wan, and triumphant.

That triumph faded rather quickly after Uther had him thrown into the dungeons.

"Why are you doing this?" Arthur yelled, glaring at his father through the bars.

"Because you disobeyed me when the king and prince must present a united front," Uther snapped.

"I did it to save a boy's life!"

Uther turned.

"Wait!" Arthur cried. "At least give Merlin the antidote!"

Uther walked away.

Arthur stared in slack-jawed disbelief at his father. He couldn't… was his father really going to let Merlin die just to prove some stupid point? Sure, Merlin could be infuriating at times and Arthur had occasionally wanted to throttle him, but he'd knowingly drunk poison to save his master and he was dying for it and now Arthur had his only hope for survival and Uther wouldn't let the prince give it to him. The knight just couldn't understand. He couldn't understand why his father, his king, would let an innocent boy die when  _the cure is right here_.

He had to escape. He had to find some way of getting the flower to Merlin before his servant died.

Or he could tell the guards to save Merlin. He did just that, but the guards refused. Neither wanted to face Uther's punishment, especially when he was in such a foul mood.

Arthur could have screamed. Did no one in Camelot care about honor anymore?

"Food for the prince," a woman's voice announced. The guards stepped aside for her. Arthur absently identified her as Guinevere, Morgana's maid. She came to him carrying a tray of cold-cut meat and bread. "My apologies for the low quality, Sire," she murmured demurely, "but your father…." She handed him the plate. Dark eyes bored into blue. In a whisper, Guinevere begged, "Give me the flower."

Arthur smiled. His hand slipped into his armor, came out clutching a withered orange plant. As Guinevere passed him some bread, he slipped the blossom to her.

The maid beamed, her entire face lighting up. Arthur blinked in surprise. He'd never realized quite how beautiful she was.

Guinevere passed him the last of his food, turned around, and walked away, completely composed. Looking at her, he would never have guessed that she was skirting on treason.

Arthur smiled and settled down to eat.

He managed to remain still through the course of his cold, dry meal, but found that he couldn't stay still once his food was gone. Then his thoughts swarmed like bees in his brain, and he had to pace back and forth, back and forth to relieve his tension. He felt like a caged animal and probably looked like one too, but he just couldn't sit around while Merlin might be dying.

That was when he realized just how deep his concern for the lanky manservant was. It was completely irrational. Merlin was lazy and incompetent and mouthy and not particularly bright; he didn't understand the concept of station, despised hunting, and felt no qualms about disobeying his master. By all rights, Arthur should hate him.

The prince, being a man and a knight, was not overly inclined to analyzing his emotions. However, he was locked in a cell for the foreseeable future and really had nothing better to do, not to mention that he couldn't get Merlin's pale face and boneless slump out of his head. Arthur examined his concern, delved deep into it, and came to the conclusion that he only wanted Merlin alive so that he could yell at him for being stupid enough to drink poison. That was it. He  _definitely_ wasn't growing fond of the pea-brained nitwit.

Or at least, that's what Arthur spent the remainder of his confinement trying to convince himself.

Finally, finally, after hours that felt like years, the guards released him. Arthur was proud to say that he did  _not_  rush straight to his idiot manservant; he stopped by the kitchens to grab a plate of food before making his way to the physician's chambers.

Merlin was alive. He was pale and scrawny and wild-haired and looked so small in his too-big sleeping shirt. His face was still creased with exhaustion, his eyes half-lidded. He was only sitting because Gaius or Guinevere had positioned pillows beneath him to hold him up. But he was alive and smiling as he talked with his guardian, his eyes bright.

"You know, Merlin," Arthur drawled, "most people rise in the presence of their prince."

The insolent sod grinned at him, his eyes going all big and innocent. "But, Arthur, I thought we'd gotten past that point in our relationship after you went through so much trouble just to get me a flower!"

Gaius choked. Guinevere erupted into a very fake coughing fit that did nothing whatsoever to cover her laughter.

Arthur just threw a roll at Merlin's head. "Shut up, you." But he, too, was smiling. "And just so you know, I only got you that blasted flower because you were stupid enough to drink poison. What the hell did you do that for, you bloody idiot?"

Merlin's face sobered. "Was I supposed to let you drink it?"

"You weren't supposed to drink it yourself!" Arthur pulled up a chair by his servant's bedside. "Most people wouldn't need me to explain that to them."

"I'm special."

Arthur snorted. "Yes, I suppose that's one word for it."

Merlin looked hopefully at the tray of food in Arthur's hands. "Is that for me?"

"It's for me, actually, but I suppose I could let you have the leftovers." Merlin grabbed a drumstick. "Hey! That's not a leftover!"

Merlin swallowed. "You just don't want to admit that you got me dinner and a flower," he teased.

"Yes," Arthur grumbled, "that's it exactly." And he dumped a gobletful of water onto Merlin's head.

* * *

Merlin leaned back into his pillows with a sigh of contentment. He didn't think he'd had a day off since arriving in Camelot, so it was nice to just sit back and read his spell book and relax. Arthur was safe, Uther had somehow called off the war with Bayard, and life was good.

Well, okay, it wasn't entirely good. Gaius believed that Cara, the girl who had warned him about the poison, was really the sorceress who had created the afanc, and that she had been after him instead of Arthur. Not that the old man was telling him anything else, like who she was or why, exactly, she wanted Camelot destroyed (though that bit, at least, didn't require a whole lot of thought to figure out). He said that he didn't want Merlin going after her, which Merlin thought was a bit ridiculous when the alternative was letting her choose when to try to kill him. But when he'd tried explaining this to Gaius, the physician had still refused to give him any information.

He complained to himself for a while about just how unfair that was, read through a few spells, and took a short nap. Then he was bored. Huffing, Merlin wracked his brains for something to do.

Oh. Oops. He'd forgotten what day it was. Wincing, hoping he wasn't too late, the warlock dragged himself out of bed. After slipping on his boots, he stumbled through Gaius's chambers. The physician wasn't there, much to Merlin's relief. If he wasn't there, he couldn't stop his ward from traipsing through the castle, climbing down several flights of stairs, and entering Kilgharrah's old cave.

Fortunately, the warlock wasn't too late. A fat sheep was wandering through the caverns. Merlin smiled.

When he'd released Kilgharrah, he hadn't anticipated having to hex a sheep every week. Then Gaius had pointed out that  _someone_ fed the dragon, and that that someone would notice if the dragon's ovine meals survived. That would lead to the discovery that Kilgharrah was free, which would lead to dragon hunts and probably a witch-burning hysteria and other things that Merlin really didn't want to deal with. So he and his scaly friend had made arrangements to smuggle sheep away from the citadel so no one would notice they were still alive.

Every Wednesday, Merlin would sneak into the dragon's old cave and put the animal he found under a sleep spell. The beast would remain unconscious until the middle of the night, when Merlin would return, lead the sheep outside, and recast the sleep spell before Kilgharrah arrived. They usually enjoyed a nice chat before Kilgharrah took the unconscious beast and flew it to Ealdor.

His last letter from Mother had mentioned that the village was accumulating quite a respectable flock.

" _Swefe nu,_ " the warlock incanted. The sheep staggered and fell.

It was still unconscious when Merlin returned late that night. The warlock recited the counter spell, then led the beast out of the cave. It struggled when they approached the opening, but Merlin extended a tendril of calming magic, promising that it was safe, that he wouldn't let the big scary dragon hurt it. The animal calmed.

"Greetings, young warlock," Kilgharrah intoned. The night was cloudy, blocking out the moon and stars, but Merlin clutched a fireball that lit up the dragon's bronze scales. The dragon's eyes seemed to glow in the flickering flames.

Merlin smiled. "Greetings, Kilgharrah." He patted the sheep on its head, murmured the sleep spell, and made his way over to the dragon. The human took up his usual position against Kilgharrah's hind leg. He had made it his mission to touch the dragon as much as possible, as Kilgharrah hadn't had any friendly contact for twenty years. He was starved for touch, though he'd never admit it, and Merlin wanted so badly to help him.

The dragon lay down, twisting his neck and body so that his head was facing Merlin. The sorcerer smiled, snuggled closer to the dragon's leg. His friend was pleasantly warm in the brisk evening, and dragon scales were surprisingly comfortable against his back. "Do you remember the sorceress who summoned the afanc?"

"Yes."

"She came back." Merlin told Kilgharrah about the poison, about Gaius's cryptic statements, and about the strange, vivid dream he'd had while dying, a dream about spiders and desperation and light. Arthur hadn't said anything about the ball of light Merlin had dreamt, but he had talked about giant spiders coming for him as he clung to the wall of the cave.

The dragon listened intently, occasionally asking for clarification but mostly intent on hearing the warlock out. When Merlin was finished, Kilgharrah said, "I believe that your dream was a true vision, young warlock. You knew that the prince had quested into a cave in search of a cure before anyone told you what he had done. Even if you heard Gaius and Guinevere discussing the Cave of Balor while you slept, you could not have known about the spiders unless your mind had truly left your body."

Merlin could have slapped himself for missing such an obvious deduction. "Oh."

The dragon's mouth curled into a smile. His exposed fangs glinted in the light of Merlin's floating fireball, but the warlock didn't even think about being afraid. "Do not be so hard on yourself. You are weak still from your ordeal, and the mind rarely functions well when the body is weary. You ought to return to your bed and sleep. Later, I will teach you to mind-walk voluntarily."

"Thank you," Merlin replied quietly, "but can I ask you something before I go?"

"Of course."

Merlin met Kilgharrah's eyes. "This is the second time this sorceress has attacked. Gaius knows who she is, but he won't tell me. Who is she, Kilgharrah?"

The dragon shifted slightly. "For once," he confessed, "I agree with the physician."

"What? But—"

"She is powerful and dangerous, and though you to have great power, you lack her experience. I do not want you to seek her."

"So I'm supposed to wait for her to come and kill me?"

"Of course not." Kilgharrah looked offended by the very thought. "I will seek her out."

Merlin pulled up short. "You'd do that for me?"

"For you and for Albion," the dragon replied.

"Right. Albion." Merlin frowned. "If you find her, what will you do?"

"I will speak with her, explain who you are and who Arthur is. This sorceress is a high priestess of the Old Religion. She will know of the prophecies."

"But what if she doesn't believe you?"

"She will." Kilgharrah's lips pulled back, revealing more of his sharp ivory fangs. "I can be very persuasive when I want to be."

Merlin laughed.

Kilgharrah stood, stretched. Merlin climbed to his feet, already missing the dragon's warmth at his back. It might be summer, but the night was unusually cold. "Thank you. This is the best news I've had since the afanc died." On impulse, he darted towards the startled dragon and wrapped his arms around the scaly neck. Kilgharrah went rigid before relaxing, laying his great head on Merlin's shoulder.

"You are very welcome, Merlin." He pulled away from the boy's embrace. "Now off to bed with you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few notes on the light: It's very common cross-culturally for magic users to be able to leave their bodies. The mulukwausi of the Trobriands, the sorcerers of the Azande, and the Friulian benandanti and malandanti are just a couple of examples. Mulukwausi and Zande sorcerers even appear in the form of light when they're wandering around without their bodies. The tradition extends back to truly ancient times, since shamans often left their bodies in soul flight. It continued on through the Middle Ages, when doctors of the Church argued back and forth about whether witches attended Black Mass physically or if they just flew there in spirit (this is also when the benandanti came into conflict with the Church. For more information about them, read The Night Battles by Carlo Ginzburg). The tradition survives today as astral projection. So yes, Merlin is going to learn to do that, as he should have in the show.
> 
> Notes on Kilgharrah: He was essentially in solitary confinement for almost twenty years in the show. According to Wikipedia, solitary confinement for more than a few weeks is considered a form of psychological torture, and people in solitary are highly at risk for developing mental illness. Touch deprivation, a result of Kilgharrah's confinement, is another serious problem that can cause medical and psychological issues. Obviously, this research was done on humans, not dragons, but I think that it's applicable.
> 
> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Merlin Proves Himself a Spider-Slaying Badass Despite Being Unconscious, Poisoned, Dying, and Several Miles Away from the Spiders in Question"


	5. Guinevere's Vow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A different future means different dreams means different actions in the present means a different future.

Chapter V: Guinevere's Vow

"Sooooo," Morgana said, eyes bright with mischief, "how is your Merlin doing?"

Gwen flushed, a very recent memory rushing to the forefront of her mind. "Oh, hush," she mock-grumbled, reaching down to gather up a laundry basket. "There's nothing between us."

"Really?" Morgana drawled, lips twitching.

"Really," Gwen confirmed. Her blush deepened. "I may have… er… made my interests a bit obvious—all right, that's something of an understatement—but he had been dying! And then he was alive and I was just so relieved that I did something very silly and, well, he said that he wasn't interested in me in that way—not in those exact words, of course—"

"What happened?" Morgana interrupted.

Gwen straightened, laundry basket in hand, unable to excuse her crouch anymore. She just knew that her cheeks were flaming. Not for the first time, she thanked her father for her skin tone. Someone as pale as Morgana would strongly resemble a tomato if she was blushing this badly. "I kissed him when he woke up."

"And?" Morgana leaned forward, eager for more details.

"And he blushed and stammered and told me that while he was flattered, he really didn't think it would work." Gwen gave a helpless little shrug. "He sees me as a friend, not a potential soul mate, and after that kiss, I'm starting to think he might be right." She smiled sadly. "There wasn't any passion, and while I think part of that might have been due to him just waking up—actually, it probably was—I think that a lot of it was just that some people are better off as friends."

Morgana was frowning. In an effort to cut off the inevitable growling about how Gwen was the best person around, she deserved her pick of men, and Merlin was an idiot for not seeing that, the maid hastily added, "Like you and me, for instance. Unless there's something you're not telling me?"

The lady choked, spluttered out a laugh. Gwen laughed along, pleased that the heat was fading from her cheeks.

"Yes, Gwen. There is indeed something I'm not telling you." Green eyes danced with mirth. "I think we should be mortal enemies from now on."

Gwen laughed again. Morgana tried to remain stoic-faced and (relatively) serious, but soon gave up and joined in.

The laughter died down, as all laughter must do eventually. Humming softly, her mood still light after their jokes, Gwen began putting clean dresses into Morgana's wardrobe. They continued for a few minutes in companionable silence.

Morgana was the first to speak. "Seriously, though, Gwen. If you want to talk about Merlin… well… about Merlin's choice, I'm here."

"Thank you, my lady," Gwen replied quietly. "That means a lot to me."

By this point, she'd hung up all her mistress's clean laundry. The maid looked around, saw yesterday's discarded dress and shift. She deposited them into the basket. "I'll be back soon. Should I get you a sleeping draught while I'm out?"

The last vestiges of Morgana's smile faded. "Yes. But…." She trailed off into silence.

"They got worse?" Gwen asked, not at all surprised. Both women knew that Morgana's dreams got worse during times of stress, and what with Merlin almost dying and Uther declaring war (and then deciding to keep the peace, though no one was entirely certain why) things had certainly been stressful lately.

"Yes," Morgana confirmed with a heavy sigh. "I dreamed about the road again."

"What was last night's obstacle?" Gwen queried. Her friend had told her all about the strange dreams with the split path and the shadow-faced man's inexplicable presence.

Morgana remained quiet.

"My lady?"

No response.

"Morgana?"

"…You know that I'd dreamt of spiders," Morgana blurted. She winced. "On the road, that is. Huge spiders the size of my head and a reptilian thing with sails on its back and a dark cave." The lady sank onto her bed. Her hands rested in her lap, fisting the fabric of her dress. Her knuckles were white. "And that's what Arthur was talking about: spiders and a sail-backed reptile and a dark cave." Her fists clenched and unclenched, wrinkling the fabric. "I'm starting to think that sleeping draughts can't help with… this." Her shoulders were shaking.

Gwen nearly dropped her laundry basket. She caught it at the last moment, though, and put it down gently before gliding over to sit at her friend's side. The maidservant opened her arms, folded them around her trembling mistress. Morgana buried her face in her friend's shoulder.

"I'm scared, Gwen."

The words came out in a whisper that was further muffled by her friend's body. Gwen could only imagine how much the confession cost her proud friend. She squeezed tighter, wondering how on earth she could help with something like this.

"You know my mother was one," Morgana continued.

"Your mother had to train for years," Gwen reminded her.

Morgana nodded. "But what if—what if there's more to it than training? What if you don't choose it? What if it chooses you?"

"I don't know," Gwen was forced to admit.

Morgana shuddered.

"But," Gwen continued, "there's an easy enough way to test if these dreams are… special."

Morgana jerked out of the embrace. Red-rimmed eyes focused hopefully, intently, on Gwen's expression.

"If the next obstacle from the dream appears, then it really…." Gwen didn't want to say it. "And if… if it does make an appearance in the real world, well, I suppose we'll have to cross that bridge when we come to it. Er,  _if_  we come to it. If. There's a possibility that this is just a coincidence. In fact, it probably is."

The king's ward might be distraught, but she still managed an incredulous snort.

"Well," Gwen protested, hands aflutter, "stranger coincidences have happened!"

"Like what?"

"Ah…." Gwen searched her memories. Inspiration struck. "Oh! Do you remember the story about Elyan and me and the tomatoes?"

"How could I forget?"

Gwen smiled. The story  _was_  quite unforgettable. "Yes. So stranger coincidences have happened, and, well, if it's not—not that I don't think it's not, because I do. I don't think this is anything more than a strange coincidence like the one we just mentioned. But—but if I'm wrong, I'll help you. Somehow. I haven't figured that part out yet. But I will, Morgana. I swear it."

"Thank you." A tentative smile flickered across Morgana's face. " _Thank you._ "

"You're welcome," Gwen replied, trying very hard not to think about the fact that she might have just promised to commit treason. She leaned over, reached once again for the laundry basket. "But I'll get still the sleeping draught on my way back. Better safe than sorry, right?" She pushed herself off the bed, started heading toward the door.

"Wait."

"Yes?"

"Didn't you want to know about the thing I saw? The thing that might be coming?"

Oh. That was right. She had been so focused on the whole treason bit that she'd forgotten the new obstacle in Morgana's dream. "What is it?"

"I honestly don't know," the younger woman confessed. "It has the body of a lion but the wings and head of an eagle. A really big, lion-sized eagle, so it was bigger than Arthur's dogs but smaller than the horses. Its front feet were talons, but the hind legs ended in a lion's claws."

Gwen's brow furrowed. "I've never heard of a creature like that."

"Neither have I," Morgana confessed, "but that's what I saw."

"Maybe you should ask the hooded man what it is," Gwen suggested.

"That's actually a good idea," Morgana said. "He's got to be there for  _some_  reason."

Gwen's lips twitched. "He's probably one of your many admirers. So many people care for you, Morgana. Always remember that."

Morgana smiled ever so slightly. It wasn't the chuckle Gwen had been hoping for, but it was a lot better than the fear-filled expression that had previously covered her lady's face. Morgana was scared, and she had good reason to be. Gwen was scared too, and she was only involved by association. She couldn't imagine what her poor friend was going through. But confiding in someone, even if that someone was only a maid, and hearing a promise to help had done wonders for Morgana's anxiety. Her face was calming, the wrinkles of worry smoothing out.

As Gwen made her way to the laundry room, she thought about what had just happened. Of course she did—how could she not? Her dearest friend in the world might be developing magical powers, and she had promised to aid her even though that was treason and Uther was not particularly forgiving of treachery. Or anything at all, really, but especially not treachery. If Morgana was right and Gwen helped her and they got caught, they would both burn.

Despite the heat of the day, Gwen shivered.

"Ah, Guinevere."

For the second time that hour, Gwen jumped, nearly dropping the laundry basket and spilling its contents all over the floor. "My lord," she said, dropping into a curtsey as best she could. Inside, she was trying not to panic. Short of Uther himself, Prince Arthur Pendragon was the last person she wanted to see while thoughts of magic and treason and secrets still bounced around her head.

"I was hoping to find you."

"Oh?" It came out a squeak. There was no possible way he could know, Gwen reminded herself. Unless he'd been eavesdropping. Oh, heavens, what if he'd been eavesdropping? Or what if he'd noticed that Morgana's dreams had a way of coming true and wanted to question her about that? She didn't know if she could hold up to an interrogation, especially not so soon. Please don't be an interrogation.  _Please_  don't be an interrogation….

Arthur smiled. "No need to look so worried," he assured her. "I merely wanted to thank you for conveying the mortaeus flower to Gaius."

"I…." So not an interrogation then. That was wonderful. "….You are very welcome, my lord, but you didn't need to thank me. Merlin is my friend. I was happy to do it."

The prince nodded. "Yes. Well. Nonetheless, I  _am_  grateful to you. I've almost got him turned into a halfway competent manservant. It would be tiresome to train up a new one from scratch."

"It isn't Merlin's fault, Your Highness," Gwen protested. "Merlin grew up in a farming village, you see. He never had any training until he arrived in Camelot. He'd never even touched a sword until his first day in your employ. I've been teaching him, of course, but he's really doing quite well for someone with no experience. Sire."

"I suppose you might be right," the prince admitted. He leaned closer. "Just don't ever tell him I said that, you understand? He's already being unbearable about that blasted flower. Honestly, why did it have to be a flower?"

Gwen fought back a laugh. "I suppose because trees don't really grow in caves."

"Couldn't it have been a fungus or a mushroom or something?" Arthur grumbled. "Because Merlin just won't  _shut up_  about flowers and feelings and all that ridiculousness."

"I think that that's his way of dealing with almost dying," Gwen replied, her laughter slipping away. She remembered how pale Merlin had been, the sweat running down his brow, that awful rash creeping across his body. "It must have been terrifying for him, and the only way he knows how to cope with what happened is through laughing at it."

"Laughing at me, more like," Arthur corrected, but there was no heat in his voice. His eyes were distant as he saw once again the servant lifting his hand in a toast, a few seconds of calm, then Merlin's entire body going limp and sprawling across the floor. The prince caught himself with a shudder. "Well. I suppose that there's no harm in letting him laugh, then. But I still wish it wasn't a flower." He nodded. "Again, thank you, Guinevere. I'll leave you to your duties now."

Gwen curtsied as the prince walked away, then continued along to the laundry room.

Without Arthur distracting her, she found her thoughts turning once again to Morgana's predicament. The maid offered up a brief prayer to all the gods she could think of that her friend and mistress was wrong, that her dreams really were just coincidences, that she didn't have magic, that they weren't both in terrible danger. But she couldn't help the dread curdling in her stomach because, well, she'd noticed how strangely prescient the dreams could be long ago. She hadn't thought about it—hadn't  _let_  herself think about what it implied—but she wouldn't be surprised if Morgana's suspicions were right. Dismayed, yes, and frightened, but not surprised.

She dropped the dirty clothing off with a laundry maid. Since they didn't have any more clean clothes for her to convey back to Morgana's chambers, she carted an empty basket into Gaius's chambers.

The physician in question was fixing his infamous stare of disapproval on Merlin, who was trying to remain unrepentant but failing miserably. "What did he do?" Gwen asked Gaius.

"He was running about the castle wearing himself out just a few hours after he woke up," the physician grumbled.

"No I wasn't," Merlin retorted. "I was walking, not running. There's a huge difference."

Gaius glared. Merlin squirmed.

"What were you doing?" Gwen demanded. "I know that the prince gave you the day off."

"Making arrangements for my sheep-smuggling ring," Merlin replied.

"Sheep smuggling, Merlin?" Gwen sighed, rolling her eyes. Honestly, he had  _such_ a strange sense of humor sometimes. But then, he  _had_  almost died. She should expect him to be even stranger than usual.

But still, sheep smuggling? Sometimes, she really wondered what on earth happened in that head of his.

Gaius cuffed his ward over that head of his.

"Ow," Merlin whined. Rubbing at the bump, he grumbled, "I thought that physicians were supposed to help invalids?"

"If you're well enough to smuggle sheep, you're well enough to handle a light tap on the head," Gaius retorted.

"Does that mean I'm well enough to get out of bed again?" Merlin asked hopefully.

Gaius fixed him with a long level stare before returning his attention to the amused Gwen. "How can I help you today, Gwen?"

"Morgana needs another sleeping draught," she explained. "Her nightmares have gotten worse again."

"They'll usually get better soon, though," Gaius reminded her.

"I know," Gwen agreed, "but the last draught you tried didn't work very well."

Gaius frowned but did not appear surprised. "Hmm…. I suppose there are one or two things left to try, but perhaps we should look at alternatives to draughts. Has she been exercising?"

"We usually go for at least one ride and several walks each day," Gwen answered. "She's a bit less active in the winter, but it's high summer now and she does tire out her body. It hasn't helped."

Once again, Gaius remained unsurprised. "Perhaps we should start monitoring what she's eating. There may be a pattern."

Gwen doubted that there would be, but she agreed to bring it up with her mistress anyways. It wasn't like monitoring Morgana's diet would hurt anything, and if there was a chance, however remote, that her nightmares were related to food, they should investigate it.

The gods knew it was certainly a more palatable explanation than sorcery.

Like her servant, Morgana was not at all convinced that diet had anything to do with her nightmares, and it took Gwen a long time to convince her that at least trying it out couldn't hurt. At worst, it would be a couple minutes of wasted time each day for a month or so. At best, they would discover some bizarre correlation with, say, roast beef.

"But you don't think it's food either, do you Gwen?"

She sighed. "No, I don't."

Morgana just nodded.

They started her dream/food journal that evening. Morgana dutifully recorded her breakfast, lunch, and supper before turning in, and she did it with a minimum of grumbling.

When Gwen returned the next morning, she found her mistress already awake. "Bad night?" she asked.

Morgana nodded. "I saw the creature again. Here. I've drawn it." She pushed a scrap of parchment towards Gwen. The paper was dominated by the black outline of a strange-looking creature, half-lion and half-bird. The beast reared on its hind legs, beak gaping, claws extended. "It's called a griffin, apparently."

"Griffin," Gwen murmured, leaning over to better examine the illustration. Morgana wasn't the best artist in the world, but she'd still captured the terror of the monster, the rage in its eyes. "Your dream man told you that?"

"That and more. Griffins are creatures of magic that can only be killed through magical means. If this is a true dream and there really is a griffin coming towards Camelot, then all we can do is capture it."

Gwen frowned. "Don't you think it's a bit premature to start plotting against it?"

"Better premature than too late!"

"You're right, of course." Gwen forced herself to think like everything Morgana's dream man had told her was true. "If this griffin is a creature of magic, can it be held with regular chains?"

"I don't know," Morgana confessed. "I didn't ask. I'll do that tonight."

The next morning, she announced that griffins could, in fact, be bound by ordinary chains, but that her hooded guide swore there was nothing for her to worry about. The griffin, he promised, would be 'taken care of.'

"And when I asked him what that meant," Morgana growled, pacing her room in frustration, "he just grinned at me and stopped talking!"

"But if his face is shrouded in darkness, how did you know he was grinning?"

"It was something in the eyes, I think," she grumbled.

But for the next week and a half, nothing happened. Life went on. Morgana's dream continued, not every night but several times each week. She dutifully recorded what she had eaten each day in the new dream journal, but, true to her predictions, it hadn't revealed any patterns thus far. Gaius told her not to be deterred and requested that she keep making entries until the end of the month. Morgana agreed more to humor him than from any real conviction.

She and Gwen danced around the topic of magic. They would never mention it directly, never use words like 'sorcery' and 'magic' and 'witch.' But they thought about it all the time. Gwen started having nightmares too, and like her mistress prayed that the things she saw at night never came to pass. The thought of Morgana burning at the stake….

No. It wouldn't happen. She wouldn't  _let_  it.

Besides, she told herself, it was only dreaming. Even if Morgana's dreams were 'special,' nobody needed to know about them. As long as she kept quiet about the details of her nightmares, quiet enough that no one else could connect the dots, she would be safe.

Relieved by the thought, Gwen brought it up the next day as she helped Morgana dress. For a moment, she thought that she had done it, had finally banished the cloud of gloom and fear that followed Morgana around like a perverse duckling. Hope brightened Morgana's features.

"You really think so?"

"I know so," Gwen assured her. "You don't need to tell anyone what you see. You'll be safe then."

The hope in Morgana's eyes dimmed. "But what if it's more than just dreams?"

"Has something happened?"

"No," Morgana confessed, "but I fear something will."

Gwen chewed on her lip. Her hands, accustomed to fastening complicated dresses, continued their work without faltering. "I…. I suppose that you'll have to find a teacher."

Morgana shuddered. Whether that was from the thought of contacting a sorcerer or of Uther's reaction to her contacting a sorcerer, Gwen couldn't say. She'd bet on Uther, though. "Any teacher would be in terrible danger here in Camelot."

"What about Tintagel?"

"Do you really think that Uther will let me wander off? And even if I could," she added bitterly, "I doubt that Cador would let me live there."

Gwen grimaced. Morgana's cousin had never been overly fond of her.

"But," Morgana speculated, "some of them can do that whirlwind thing."

"You mean the vanishing?"

"Exactly. If my teacher could just pop in and out of Camelot…."

"That would be brilliant," Gwen said, tying the last knot. "There. Ready to face the day?"

Morgana actually smiled. "Actually, I think I am."

They spent the morning in a meeting with the head of the weaver's guild discussing the knights' need for new cloaks and the severe lack of uniforms for guards. After the plague, Uther had started increasing the guard, and now the captain was out of uniforms for his new recruits. "Focus on the guards first," Morgana told the guildswoman, "and the knights second. They can afford to buy their own cloaks, and we still have a supply of spares."

"Of course, my lady."

After a quick stop to purchase lunch from a vendor, the two friends returned to the castle. "We ought to see what Uther's doing," Morgana decided. He often had tasks for her to carry out, and the guild meeting was the only thing on her schedule.

But Uther was holding court, listening to a scrawny, shaking peasant describe the plight that had befallen his village.

"It doesn't take livestock, sire," he said as Morgana and Gwen slipped in. "It prefers human flesh."

Uther stiffened. "And what manner of beast is it?" he demanded. "A rogue wolf?"

"No, sire," the man replied. "It's like nothing I've ever seen before, and I don't know the name. I fear it's a creature of magic."

"Fetch Gaius," Uther ordered one of the pages. The page saluted before scurrying off. "The court physician is very knowledgeable about creatures of magic. He will know what it is and how it may be destroyed. Until he arrives, tell me about the attacks in more detail."

The court listened with steadily increasing horror as the peasant reported the creature's depredations: children missing, human corpses discovered half-eaten and mutilated from terrible claws. But Gwen and Morgana had another reason to fear.

Soon Gaius arrived, and the peasant began his description. "It has the hindquarters of an enormous cat with a tassel on its tail. The front part looks like an enormous eagle. It's absolutely terrifying."

Morgana went rigid.

"Well, physician?" Uther said, turning to Gaius. "Do you know of any creature that fits this description?"

"I believe I do, sire," Gaius replied. Gwen's heart sank, for she knew what he would say before he said it. The maid slipped her hand around Morgana's. Morgana grasped her tight.

"It is called a griffin."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein the Lady Morgana, Not Being a Complete Dolt, Grows Suspicious of Her Oddly Prophetic Dreams and Decides to Investigate"


	6. The Would-be Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi, Lancelot!

Chapter VI: The Would-be Knight

"Niiiice beastie," Merlin crooned, backing away slowly. "Be a nice bird-cat thing and don't eat me. You wouldn't like me anyways. Skin and bones, see?"

The creature, which appeared to be some sort of eagle-lion hybrid with attitude problems, snapped its beak in Merlin's direction. It pawed at the ground, then charged.

Merlin waited until the last second before flinging himself out of the way. "Bad beastie!" he yelled. "Bad, horrible—" His rebuke ended in a yelp as he rolled away from the creature's sharp talons.

Time slowed. Merlin climbed to his feet, darted away from the frozen creature. Time sped up again.

He could have run. He was hardly a professional monster-killer—that was what Arthur and the knights were for (when they weren't out hunting innocent sorcerers, that is). But  _someone_  had sent that afanc, and Merlin was willing to bet that two obviously supernatural creatures attacking the same city twice in a month and a half were connected. He wouldn't be surprised if Kilgharrah's mysterious sorceress was behind this one, too. The dragon hadn't found her yet, so it was very likely that she was indeed the culprit.

If this thing, whatever it was, was after him, then it was his responsibility to destroy it.

Fortunately, Merlin had been practicing.

" _Forbaerne!_ " the warlock cried, thrusting out his hand. Flames shot from his fingertips, singeing the monster's feathers, setting its fur alight. Merlin smiled. Kilgharrah had told him that when in doubt, fire was always a good choice of weapon. The warlock had half-believed that this tip was born from a dragon's prejudice, but apparently not.

But the sorcerous flames didn't last long. The creature reared, claws flashing.

Someone yanked him out of the way.

Merlin's blood ran cold. He went rigid, sweat beading at his brows, a lump the size of an apple congealing in his throat. He forgot all about the creature, even though its talons had cut through his kerchief, even though it was screaming its fury at a deafening volume.

Someone had seen him use magic. Please oh please oh  _please_  be Gaius….

The young sorcerer finally dared to turn his head. A moan of despair escaped his throat.

The person who had grabbed him was nothing like Gaius. Muscled and tanned, with curly dark hair and stubble on the bottom of his handsome face, he had the look of a fighter. One of the guards, perhaps, or even worse—a knight. Merlin could have wept.

White-hot pain lanced through his arm, followed by a gush of sticky wetness. Merlin cried out, jerked away. He and the other man fell. The warlock scrambled away, away, not from the creature but from a fellow human being. In mere moments, he was halfway across the small clearing, his back against a tree.

The beast lunged towards the stranger.

" _Scildan!_ "

Merlin cast the spell by instinct. A golden shield materialized between the monster and the man. The beast bounced off with a shriek of fury.

"Handy trick, that," the soldier muttered.

Blood gushed down Merlin's mangled arm. His heart was still racing from the knowledge that oh, gods and goddesses, no, this person had seen him do magic, he'd seen the magic, he  _knew_. But he had more immediate problems than the stranger's presence. That rapid heartbeat the maybe-knight inspired meant that he would lose consciousness soon from blood loss, and then the lion-thing would probably eat them both. Already black spots danced on the edge of his vision.

" _Forbaerne!_ "

The creature danced away.

The stranger drew a sword. Merlin backed away, clutching at his bleeding arm. He'd researched how to defeat creatures of magic, talking with Gaius and Kilgharrah and reading through his magic book and sneaking other books from the library. The sight of the stranger's blade jogged a memory from his panicking mind.

" _Bregdan anweald gafeluec."_

No result. The stranger stepped in front of the wounded sorcerer, crouching and ready to fight. He didn't know that his sword might not affect the creature, that it might bounce off the magical hide like a ball from the ground.

" _Bregdan… anweald gafeluec!"_

The last thing Merlin saw before the blackness took him was the stranger's sword bursting into flame.

* * *

Merlin did not wake up in the dungeons.

He'd expected to, assuming he'd wake up at all. Between the beast and the soldier, his continued survival hadn't seemed particularly likely. But here he was, awake and alive and rather confused.

He woke up in the forest with his neckerchief bound around his wounded arm and a bag propped under his head as a pillow. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the stranger was sitting against a tree watching him because he knew Merlin had magic, he knew, he knew, he knew—

Merlin began to hyperventilate. A soldier, a complete stranger who had seen him use magic. Not just magic, powerful magic, magic meant to kill. Never mind that it was a monster trying to kill him, that the beast would have slain them both if Merlin hadn't intervened. He had used magic and he'd been seen and he was going to die and—oh. Oh, he was going to pass out again. Stupid blood loss.

The stranger held up his hands. He looked a bit alarmed by Merlin's rapid breathing and uncontrollable trembling. "I'm not going to hurt you," he announced in the soft, soothing tone of someone trying to reassure a skittish horse. "My name's Lancelot. What's yours?"

"Nobody!" Merlin blurted. "I am absolutely nobody! I'm a nonexistent figment of your imagination, and this entire battle was just a hallucination. You saw  _absolutely nothing._ "

Lancelot looked very alarmed. "I… see."

"No you didn't."

"Right." Lancelot's alarm was not fading. If anything, it was becoming more pronounced. "Are you all right?"

"I can't be all right because I don't exist," Merlin babbled, "but if I did exist, I'd tell you that I'd just had my arm sliced open from that whatever-it-was and you know about my magic and you're going to try to kill me and everyone I love and no, no, I'm not all right." He started to scoot away. "I think I'm going to be sick."

To his surprise, Lancelot also backed away. His arms remained in the air, fingers splayed to show that his hands were empty of weapons. "If you existed, I'd point out that you just saved my life when it would have been easier to let me die. I saw you. I could betray you… but you still let me live." He smiled, warm and grateful.

"But you actually didn't do that because you  _don't_ exist, so I suppose that the monster just vanished." He paused, frowned. "You might want to take care of that, by the way. If someone finds that corpse, they'll see that it was killed by magic. Or," he corrected himself, "they'll think it was killed by magic, but it clearly wasn't because you're the only sorcerer around here and you're just a figment of my overactive, battle-addled imagination."

Merlin dared to breathe again. He no longer felt the need to vomit. "You're quite right," he noted. Still feeling exceptionally uncomfortable (did Lancelot have to  _stare_  at him like that?), he mumbled, " _Forbaerne._ "

The creature's corpse erupted once again in fire. This time, without any distractions, Merlin kept his spell active until nothing was left of the beast but blackened bones. Merlin stretched out his hand. For a moment he let it hang there, then he pulled it into a fist.

The monster's bones disintegrated, leaving nothing but ash on the breeze.

Lancelot gave a low whistle. Merlin jumped. Acutely conscious of the gold not yet faded from his eyes, he met the soldier's gaze.

There was a long and very uncomfortable silence.

Finally Lancelot shifted, cleared his throat. "Well," he said. "Well. I suppose that, since you are clearly a hallucination created in the depths of my mind and don't really exist, you should probably vanish back into the ether now."

Merlin nodded cautiously.

"After all," Lancelot continued, "I'm going to assume that my hallucination was caused from the stress of battle. Now that the battle is over and the beast… er… mysteriously disintegrated for no apparent reason… my hallucination can just… go… do whatever it is hallucinations do."

"So you agree that I don't exist?" Merlin asked.

"You saved my life," Lancelot explained, "and at great risk to yourself."

"So I  _don't_ exist."

"Of course not," the soldier agreed.

And Merlin believed him.

The warlock's face broke into a wide, relieved grin. "Oh, thank all the gods and goddesses," he breathed. Tension drained from his shoulders, leaving him limp. "I was afraid that—that you'd think I was real and then you'd go tell Uther and—well, that would be bad. But you know that I'm not real, so I'll just be going now." He climbed to his feet and started leaving.

"If you did exist," Lancelot noted, "I'd thank you and wish you well."

Merlin froze again. "If I existed," he replied, "I'd thank you for that and for saving my nonexistent life. I would greatly appreciate everything."

"As would I." Lancelot cracked a grin. "It's almost too bad that you don't exist."

"Don't say that," Merlin cautioned. "If I existed, you'd have to kill me."

Lancelot's smile faded. "Right," he muttered. Then, "I'm leaving now."

"Good. So am I."

Merlin wanted to sprint back to Gaius like a child after a nightmare, but he forced himself to walk instead, gathering the mushrooms his mentor had requested along the way. He was acutely aware of everything around him: the birdsong, insects buzzing, the wind occasionally whispering through the pine needles, the dull agony in his arm. He'd have to bind that up the second he got back. Something stepped on a twig. Merlin jumped, spun around, but it was only a squirrel. Laughing nervously at himself, the warlock continued on.

Okay. Okay. He had a problem here. A complete stranger had seen him use magic. That was bad. That was really very bad. But, he told himself, there was good news too. Well, okay, it wasn't exactly  _good_ news as much as a not- _completely_ -unmitigated disaster, but there was still a silver lining on this black cloud.

Lancelot hadn't shown any interest in killing him. According to the laws of Camelot, he would have been well within his rights; any citizen could kill a sorcerer and escape prosecution. It was the only legal form of vigilantism in the kingdom. If Lancelot had murdered him before he regained consciousness, no one would have protested.

Assuming that Lancelot told people in the first place. It would have been so, so easy, Merlin realized, suddenly feeling very cold, to just kill him and be done with it. The soldier wouldn't have had to report to the king, wouldn't have had to explain a dead manservant to the prince. He could have made it look like the monster had killed a man before dying under mysterious circumstances.

But Lancelot  _hadn't_ done that. Instead, he'd bandaged Merlin's injured arm, made him as comfortable as possible, and asked if he was all right. Best of all, he'd asked who Merlin was.

He didn't know. He didn't recognize the sorcerer as Arthur's oddball manservant.

So, theoretically, if Merlin kept his head down for the next few weeks, Lancelot might forget the sorcerer's face. He certainly wouldn't forget that he'd met a sorcerer—that would be too much to hope for—but maybe, just maybe, Merlin's angular features and unfortunate ears would fade from his mind. And, the warlock decided, he would start growing out some facial hair. A short beard would help disguise the sharpness of his chin, the distinctive shape of his face. His scalp hair as well, get it to cover his ears…. He could get a tan too. He'd probably look very different. Unrecognizable, perhaps, especially if Lancelot was bad with faces.

Which meant that there was no need to mention this little incident to Gaius. Gaius would tell his mother and then his mother would be furious and he really didn't want to deal with that. His mother could be very frightening when she was angry. Gaius was the same, though he'd probably express disapproval more than actual rage. He was very good at expressing disapproval. The physician's ward didn't want to deal with  _that_  either.

Merlin fully intended to go through with that plan. After binding up his arm with fresh linens, he went through his spell book looking for incantations to make his fair skin tan instead of burn, to grow out his hair more quickly. He was just preparing to cast the hair spell when Gaius called his name.

"Coming!" the warlock yelled.

By the time he was done cleaning that accursed leech tank, he was far too exhausted to do anything but collapse into bed. Then he woke up late and didn't have time to cast his spells because he had to sprint to the kitchens, grab Arthur's breakfast, and watch the prat eat the delicious, wonderful-smelling meal while his stomach whined in protest.

_Then_  Arthur dragged him out to the training fields and started training for jousting, which, as far as Merlin could tell, was merely an excuse to charge at his poor helpless manservant with a lance. Merlin hated holding the jousting ring. Couldn't they have made a pole or something to hold it so he didn't have to? But, he reflected glumly, even if there was a pole like that, Arthur would probably still insist on torturing his servant. He was just sadistic like that.

Take now, for instance. The prat had gone and knocked Merlin off his feet. The warlock fell onto his backside. He tried to catch himself, but his left arm was still wounded and his right arm got tangled up in the ring. His head slammed against the ground.

Merlin's ears rang. His brain felt like it was going to slosh right out of his nose. He groaned theatrically.

"Get up, Merlin," Arthur ordered.

Merlin groaned again and flopped onto his belly. "Do I have to?" he whined. "You've hit the ring about fifty times this morning. Could you maybe find something else to do? Preferably something that doesn't involve me standing still while you come at me with a dangerous pointy object."

"Well, if you insist."

Arthur sounded way too cheerful. Merlin peered up, eyes narrow with suspicion. "You can help me practice swordplay," the prince proclaimed.

The warlock dropped his head.

Strong hands gripped his shoulders. "Get up, Merlin," Arthur repeated. "I know how much you  _adore_  sparring."

"…I hate you."

Arthur, curse him, laughed. He slapped the now-upright warlock on his back, grinning unrepentantly. "You  _did_  say you wanted to do something else. Preferably something that doesn't involve you standing still while I come at you with a dangerous pointy object."

"Yes," the manservant grumbled, "me flailing about while you come at me with another kind of dangerous pointy object is exactly what I had in mind."

"That's the spirit, Merlin!" Still wearing that accursed grin, he pointed towards the storage unit knights used for practice weapons. "Now go get us some practice swords."

Grumbling, Merlin obeyed.

He knew his way around the weapons shed (Arthur insisted it wasn't a shed, but Merlin knew a shed when he saw one) by now. It would be sad if he didn't, considering how often Arthur was on the practice field. Thanks to this familiarity, he found two wooden practice swords in mere moments. The warlock pushed open the door, fixed his eyes on his prince.

Arthur was engaged in a lively conversation with Lancelot.

Merlin's blood ran cold. The practice swords tumbled from his numb arms.

He was  _not_ going out there.

There was another door out of the weapons shed, one that didn't lead through the training fields. Merlin half-stumbled, half-ran through that door. Before he knew it, he was in the medical ward.

Gaius knew who had entered even without looking up from his book. "Merlin? Aren't you supposed to be on the practice field?"

The sorcerer swallowed, closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his mask was at full strength. He really, really did not want Gaius to know about Lancelot. "Technically, yes," he announced, voice light with false cheer. "Except I got tired of Arthur charging at me with pointy objects. Why can't he go beat up a knight or something?"

The physician chuckled. "I believe it's because he wants you to be capable of defending yourself."

"I'm very capable of defending myself," Merlin sniffed. His wounded arm throbbed.  _Liar._

"But Arthur doesn't know that. This is his way of showing you that he cares."

Merlin snorted. "No, I think it's his way of showing that he's a prat."

Gaius rolled his eyes. "Well, if you insist on avoiding those duties, you can grind herbs for me."

Merlin's arm twanged again. Good thing he was right-handed. "What do you need ground?"

"Start with the yarrow. We'll see how long that takes."

"Okay." The warlock made his way over to Gaius's herb bundles. After plucking a bundle of dried yarrow, he ambled over to the mortar and pestle. "So, are you going to tell me yet?"

"Merlin…."

"Because she's tried to kill me, and I don't think she's going to stop. If Kilgharrah had found her already, it'd be different, but he hasn't. There's no telling when she'll attack again."

"I have already told you everything you need to know about her," the physician protested.

"No you didn't. You didn't tell me her name or where to find her or anything at all, really."

"I don't want you to go seeking her out, Merlin," Gaius explained for what felt like the five hundredth time. "She is very dangerous."

"So we'll let her dictate our encounters?"

"Tell me honestly, Merlin. If I gave you her name, would you or would you not search for her?"

Merlin didn't answer, which was answer enough.

"You have incredible raw power," Gaius told him, "but very few spells, little experience, and a dangerous dearth of sense."

"Hey!"

"The sorceress who sent the afanc was raised by the High Priestesses of the Old Religion. She grew up using magic openly under the tutelage of some of the most powerful women in the world. She has had decades to perfect her skill. Decades, Merlin. You can't compete with that."

"Look," the warlock sighed, "if she weren't intent on killing me or even if Kilgharrah had found her, I'd—"

The door opened. Merlin fell silent.

Arthur and Lancelot strode into the room. The latter was holding tight to a wounded arm; the former's cheek had been cut and was still drizzling blood. Naturally, both rough-and-tough save-the-world guys were grinning from ear to ear.

Merlin did  _not_  squeak. What the hell was Lancelot doing here? He'd never even seen the man before yesterday, but now the soldier was practically stalking him. Maybe he  _was_  stalking him. Maybe he'd figured out who Merlin was and spilled the beans to Arthur and they were here to arrest him and Gaius and then they'd send soldiers after his poor mother and then they'd all die.

Or maybe he was just spectacularly unlucky and a wee bit paranoid.

Whatever the case may be, Merlin had no intention of letting Lancelot spot him. He slid out of his chair and under the table. Not the best hiding place, he knew, but it wasn't like he had any other options. Besides, he'd get to his room as soon as he could.

Except that Gaius, who had no idea why Lancelot's presence was bad news, said, "Merlin, get out from under there and fetch me some bandages."

Arthur and Lancelot turned, stared. The prince made some arch comment, but Merlin didn't hear it. He was frozen, his gaze riveted on Lancelot's face.

The soldier's eyes bulged. His jaw sagged ever so slightly. His eyebrows shot up into his hairline.

"Merlin!" Arthur barked.

The warlock jumped, banging his head against the table. "Um… yes?"

"Bandages. Now."

"Okay." Face burning, eyes still not turning from Lancelot's still-stunned face, the warlock crawled out from under the table, made his way over to Gaius's collection of wrappings. If his hands shook a little as he picked them up, nobody noticed.

"Gaius," Arthur said, "this is Lancelot. He's here to try to become a knight. Lancelot, this is Gaius, our court physician, and Merlin, my lazy sod of a manservant."

Lancelot jerked. "Your manservant?" he repeated faintly.

"I know," Arthur groaned, "and yes, he is every bit as stupid as he looks."

"Which is still considerably smarter than you," Merlin shot back.

Lancelot choked.

"Enough, Merlin," Gaius scolded. "I still don't have those bandages."

"Right. Sorry." He hastened over to his guardian, handed over the linens. "Here."

Gaius accepted them with a nod of gratitude. "We need more water, Merlin. These wounds need to be cleaned."

Merlin gave a mock salute and made his escape.

The warlock took a long while to fetch water, so lost was he in his thoughts. Lancelot… it didn't look like the man would betray him, and Merlin knew full well that his terror was irrational. But then, since when had fear been subject to reason? His mother had taught him fear as soon as he could comprehend what terror was. It was written in his bones, in his blood: don't let them know, don't let anybody know.  _Keep the magic secret_. He had lived by that dictate literally his entire life, and like a claustrophobe who knew, logically, that small spaces couldn't hurt him, he couldn't shake his irrational, visceral fear.

Of course, the warlock admitted to himself as he trudged through the halls of Camelot, his fear was a bit more logical than claustrophobia. He'd seen sorcerers die, heard people cursing his kind for years. He had grown up listening to stories about friends betraying friends when they learned that their companion had magic. Not to mention that one time in Carmarthen….

But, he reminded himself, heart fluttering with hope, Will had accepted him, Will and Gaius and Hunith. Perhaps, if he was very lucky, Lancelot would be like Will. It would be… nice, he decided, to have someone like Will around.

With that thought buoying him, the warlock picked up his pace.

Arthur grumbled something about lazy servants and how long does it take to get water, anyways? but Merlin paid no attention to him except to note that he was not accusing his dogsbody of sorcery. He glanced at Lancelot. The knight-in-training shook his head almost imperceptibly. Merlin smiled, inclined his own head in thanks.

"So," he began, "you're here to become a knight?"

"Yes," Lancelot replied. "I've wanted to be a knight my entire life and trained for it since I could hold a sword. Now I've reached my majority and can finally, finally fulfill that dream."

"Assuming my father lets you," Arthur grumbled.

"What?"

"It's not a slight on your skills," the prince hastily explained. "You're quite good with the sword. Not every man can wound me. You've clearly worked hard at your training." He gave Merlin a significant look, which the servant ignored. "The problem is with the First Code of Camelot, which says that only noblemen may become knights."

"Oh," said Lancelot softly.

"I think," Arthur continued, "it's because most commoners don't have the time or means to practice swordplay and he doesn't want them practicing constantly instead of tilling the fields. But since you already have the skills and don't have any land to cultivate, I'm certain he'll make an exception."

"Want to bet?" Merlin muttered.

"I think I will, Merlin," Arthur decided. "After all, it's not like he's my father whom I've known my entire life."

Merlin hadn't expected Arthur to take him up on the bet, but now that he had, he certainly wasn't going to let the opportunity go to waste. "If I win, you'll stop trying to kill me for a fortnight."

"What?" Lancelot yelped.

"Merlin, Merlin," Arthur chuckled, "if I were trying to kill you, you'd be dead."

"Then why do you keep charging at me with deadly pointy things?"

"Because I'm refining my skills as a knight, that's why." He smirked. "When I win, you're to stop complaining about your chores for a fortnight."

"I don't think he could survive that," Gaius chuckled.

"Deal," Merlin said, sticking out his hand. His prince clasped it. They shook, each certain that he had the better end of the bargain.

Lancelot raised his eyebrows at them. "I'm not sure if I appreciate my life's work getting turned into gambling fodder."

Merlin flushed. "Oh. Didn't think of that. Sorry."

Lancelot smiled. "It's fine. I just hope you understand that I hope you lose."

"He will," Arthur assured him. "Almost done, Gaius?"

"No. I  _am_  done."

"Excellent." The prince rose to his feet. "Come on then, Lancelot, Merlin. This is his lunch hour. We can ask for an exception now. It won't take more than ten minutes."

And he was right. Ten minutes later, Merlin had won their bet, and Lancelot's dreams were no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein a New Character is Introduced and Learns that Merlin Does, In Fact, Exist, Despite His Repeated Claims to the Contrary"


	7. Lancelot's Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lancelot's confusion abates somewhat.

Chapter VII: Lancelot's Choice

Lancelot didn't quite know what he was supposed to think.

On the one hand, sorcery was illegal. It was, in fact, the most illegal thing in the entire kingdom. He had, like most other people his age, grown up on stories of sorcerers' evils: blighted crops, hailstones bigger than a baby's head, plague and pestilence and sour milk and rampant infertility. He had been taught that magic corrupted, that its practitioners had sold their very souls in return for power.

On the other hand, any idiot could see that Merlin wasn't quite like the sorcerers in the tales.

When Lancelot had seen the scrawny lad about to be mauled by the whatever-that-was, he had forgotten the magic and acted instinctively, dragging the boy out of the way. Then the youth had turned, had looked upon the face of his savior….

He had been more afraid of Lancelot than he was of the monster. He had been absolutely terrified, but he'd still automatically conjured that golden shield and saved Lancelot's life. Then, instead of letting the monster kill him—which he could have. It would have been so much easier, so much more convenient, if he'd let the man who knew his secret die—he'd done that fire thing to Lancelot's sword. The blade had cut through the monster like a dinner knife through warm butter.

And now it turned out that the boy—Merlin, his name was—was Prince Arthur's manservant and  _friend._  The affection between them was obvious even after just a few minutes, though he doubted that the prince would ever admit to it. It would have been heartwarming if their closeness didn't mean Merlin was in constant danger of fiery death.

It was also insane. Merlin was, as mentioned, in constant danger of fiery death due to his proximity to the prince of Camelot. Arthur was Uther's son. He seemed a fair bit nicer than the king (or perhaps Lancelot was a bit prejudiced against Uther for shattering his long-held dreams), but Lancelot had no doubt that Arthur shared his father's prejudice against magic.

So what on earth was Merlin thinking?

There was only one thing to do. He had to talk to the lad, ask him what was going on and why a sorcerer had decided to get a job in King Uther's household. So, partly to distract himself from the pain of rejection and partly because he was genuinely curious, Lancelot started plotting a way to get Merlin alone. He'd probably have to use some form of trickery, as the sorcerer was quite skittish and he didn't particularly want Arthur suspecting anything.

The prince in question sighed heavily. "I did think he would at least let you demonstrate your skills," he grumbled. "If he had—well." Arthur frowned. "It isn't a knighthood, but would you be interested in a job as a guard? They're recruiting and could always use a man with your talent."

"I—I'll think about it, Your Highness. I need time…."

"I can show you to an inn, if you'd like," Merlin volunteered.

"Ah, no. I've actually already got a room. Thank you for the offer, though."

"Okay." Merlin nodded. "But I can still show you around the castle, maybe introduce you to a guard or two."

"No, Merlin," Arthur interjected, "you can't. This might come as a surprise to you, but you work for  _me._  You do what I say, when I say it. You do  _not_  go traipsing away from the training field to play with flowers."

"That's right. I traipse away from the training field to help my dearly beloved great-uncle create the life-saving medicines that help keep your kingdom running."

Arthur pulled up short. "Great-uncle?"

"Yeah," Merlin replied, looking a bit surprised. "My grandfather was Gaius's brother."

"Maternal or paternal?"

"Maternal." Something flickered in those blue eyes, but Lancelot had no idea what it could be. It was gone before he could process it. "Sort of. Mother's adopted. Seriously, though, hadn't you figured that out?"

"I  _had_  wondered why he put up with you, yes."

"Speaking of putting up with, I don't have to put up with your bullying for an entire week." Merlin smirked, then, remembering, turned to Lancelot with a rather embarrassed expression. "Sorry."

"Not your fault," the other man sighed.

"Still, I probably shouldn't keep bringing that up."

"No, no, don't worry about it."

"No, no, I should." Merlin turned his head so that Arthur couldn't see his face. He winked, eyes flashing gold. "In fact, I feel so guilty about it that I absolutely  _insist_ on inviting you to eat with me and Gaius."

Arthur's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Are you trying to get out of your chores again?"

Merlin was the very picture of innocence. "Would I do such a thing?"

Arthur glared.

Merlin rolled his eyes. "It's supper, Arthur. I'll be done with your slave labor by then."

"Are you absolutely certain, Merlin? Because you're quite a bit behind after sneaking out on me."

Ah, that was right. Arthur had been grumbling about how his useless lazy manservant had made a break for it rather than continue sparring. Now that Lancelot knew the useless lazy manservant's identity, he wondered if his presence was the real reason for Merlin's flight. Considering that the sorcerer had tried to hide under a table when Lancelot entered the physician's chambers, he wouldn't be surprised.

"I'd be glad to eat with you, Merlin. What time do you and Gaius usually eat?"

They continued in that vein for the next couple of minutes, Merlin and Lancelot arranging dinner and Arthur joking that it was a date, to which Merlin replied that Arthur was the one who had gotten him a flower. That, of course, led into a retelling of the Horrible Spiders Incident, which led to Lancelot wondering once again why on earth a sorcerer was so devoted to a Pendragon. It really didn't make any sense.

Merlin and Arthur left him to his own devices for the rest of the afternoon. With nothing better to do, Lancelot returned to the training field, where he met and sparred with a pleasant blond fellow named Leon. Like Arthur, Leon thought it a shame that someone with Lancelot's skills couldn't become a knight. Also like Arthur, he suggested getting a job in the guard. The knight had no doubt that the wandering soldier could easily become Captain of the Palace Guard one day, and that was a position just as prestigious and respected as knighthood. Lancelot plastered a smile onto his face and thanked him. He knew that the knight was just trying to help. It wasn't Leon's fault that the attempt wasn't working.

To distract himself, he thought about his immanent meeting with Merlin. And Gaius, he supposed, but he was mostly interested in the nephew rather than the uncle. It was about time to eat, so he made his way back to the medical wing, thinking that he could perhaps help Gaius with cooking.

It turned out that Gaius had finished cooking, but he let Lancelot set their tiny table. The failed knight had just set down the last napkin when Merlin burst into the room. "Sorry I'm late, Gaius, Arthur was being annoying again." He froze. "Oh. Hi, Lancelot."

The boisterous façade failed, and for a moment the would-be knight caught a glimpse of a hunted, weary man, a man who knew fear and darkness and lies. Then, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, he was his chipper self again, though a bit less exuberant than he had been before. "I suppose you want an explanation, then?"

Lancelot nodded.

Gaius turned, his famous eyebrow shooting upwards. "An explanation about what?"

Merlin flushed, fiddled with his neckerchief. "He might or might not have seen me use… certain illegal means to fight a thingamajig that was trying to kill me."

"Merlin!" The physician was, unsurprisingly, horrified. "Tell me you aren't saying what I think you're saying!"

"I haven't told anyone about his magic," Lancelot said, "and I don't intend to. I would, however, like to ask a few questions."

The sorcerer bowed his head. "Fair enough. Ask away, then."

"Merlin," Gaius hissed, " _what_  is going on?"

The sorcerer looked so jittery and unhappy that Lancelot opted to do him a favor and explain. "He saved my life."

Merlin blushed.

"I was just coming into the city when I saw some sort of monster attacking him," the failed knight continued. "He had set it on fire, but the flames went out when it charged. I pulled him out of the way. He returned the favor by creating some kind of… I don't know what. A shield, I suppose, a shield made of light that stopped the creature from murdering me. Then, even though he was losing consciousness from blood loss, he still managed to do something to my sword that helped it cut through the monster's skin."

"And then," Merlin sighed, "we agreed to pretend that I didn't exist and I started plotting to grow a beard."

"What?" Lancelot asked blankly.

"As a disguise," Merlin explained. "Except you saw me before I could grow one, so…." He gave a helpless little shrug.

Gaius's expression cycled from shock to horror to disapproval and back again. His eyebrow shot up in a most frightening way. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

"No," Merlin mumbled, staring sulkily at his feet.

"In his defense," Lancelot interjected, "the thing would have eaten him if he hadn't fought."

"I believe it's the griffin people have been sighting lately," Gaius said, "and you could have run."

Merlin looked up, his face developing a distinctly mulish expression. "Not really. I think the sorceress sent it after me."

"Pardon?" Lancelot asked.

"A few weeks ago, someone sent a monster—an afanc—to poison the water supply. Arthur and I managed to kill it, but then two weeks later a woman showed up and tricked me into drinking poison. I think we told you about that. Well," he corrected himself, "Arthur told you what he thinks happened. He doesn't realize that the poison was meant for me. But it was. Gaius, she's proven she has control over magical creatures and wants me dead, and she's not afraid to kill others to get what she wants. Using Bayard to poison me nearly restarted a war! If there was any chance that she sent that griffin thing, I had to stop it before it hurt anyone. I  _had_  to."

Lancelot stared at the foolish, brave, noble young man before him and barely kept his mouth from falling open. No, this was  _definitely_  not one of the monstrous magic users in the tales. He thanked the gods that he'd decided to let Merlin go free.

"Don't you think that assuming the griffin was after you is a bit arrogant?" Gaius demanded.

Merlin flushed. "Maybe, maybe not. It  _did_ manage to find me in the woods, and it  _was_  charging at me. Considering that there's a sorceress with a vendetta against me and that this beast fixated on yours truly rather than anyone else in Camelot, I can't help but wonder if there's more to this than coincidence."

Gaius grimaced but was forced to acknowledge that his ward had a point. "Very well. But couldn't you at least have looked around before using magic?"

"Sorry, I was trying to keep an eye on the angry cat-thing that appeared to desire to eat me."

"It was a fairly isolated stretch of woodland," Lancelot chimed in.

"So what were you doing there?" Merlin wondered.

"I didn't want to enter the city smelling like a pigpen," the embarrassed soldier confessed. "I was following the stream out of sight of the road."

Merlin cracked a smile. "So can we agree that Lancelot being there and me not seeing him was a complete coincidence and that I'd had no reason to look around?" Eyes wide and innocent and hopeful, he looked up at his uncle.

"I'm not going to tell anyone," Lancelot assured the physician and his ward. "That would be poor repayment for saving my life."

Gaius groaned, sank into his chair. Every year showed in the wrinkles of his face. "You'll be the death of me, Merlin."

The sorcerer flinched. "I hope not."

Silence fell. In a (failed) attempt to break the ice, Lancelot commented, "The stew is probably getting cold by now."

"Right." Merlin's head bobbed. "Wouldn't want that." He frowned. "Well, actually, I could probably heat it right up again."

"Don't," Gaius ordered.

They served themselves. The next few minutes were quiet save for the sounds of chewing and occasional requests to pass the salt. Finally, when their bowls were empty and the last of their bread devoured, Lancelot tentatively got back to the point of the dinner. "So. You're a sorcerer in Camelot."

"Actually, I'm technically a warlock," Merlin corrected.

"…All right."

"You have no idea what that is."

"Not really."

Merlin adopted the tone of a lecturer. "A lot of people use terms like wizard, sorcerer, and witch interchangeably, but they're actually very different things. 'Sorcerer' has become catchall for magic-users of all shapes and sizes, but it technically refers to a person who was not born with the ability to access magic who learns it. A warlock is a male witch, a person born with the ability to access magic. The ability usually manifests in the teenage years, but there are a few cases—me included—where the magic shows up at another age."

"Wait," Lancelot interjected, "people can be born with magic?"

Merlin nodded. "It's like—it's like being born with a really nice singing voice, only having a nice voice can get you killed. Witches and warlocks are born with the nice voice. Sorcerers and sorceresses have to learn how to make themselves sound that good. And, um, I guess that people who can't become sorcerers are all mutes. The comparison kind of breaks down then."

"I see." Lancelot's gaze went distant. "I never knew that."

"Not a lot of people do, now," Merlin sighed. "And like I said, people will use the term 'sorcerer' for anyone with magic. That doesn't help."

"So you were born with magic," the failed knight repeated.

"Yup."

"You don't have a choice about using it?"

"I've tried to stop." Merlin winced. "I ended up using it in my sleep. I'd wake up to find myself floating by the ceiling or that I'd turned Mother's cookware into stone or that there was an apple tree sprouting from my bed."

Better and better. Something of Lancelot's alarm must have shown in his face, because Merlin quickly continued, "But that doesn't happen if I use magic while I'm awake. Which I do. You don't have to worry about me blowing up the castle in my sleep."

"Blow up the castle?" the soldier repeated.

"I won't," Merlin assured him.

"But you could if you wanted to."

The sorcerer—warlock—flinched. "Probably," he confessed.

He didn't look like the sort of person who could destroy a castle. He had big blue eyes and stuck-out ears and delicate, elfin features. He was slender, and his oversized shirt made him look like a child trying on his father's clothes.

Appearances could be very deceiving.

"I… see."

Merlin fidgeted. The warlock was clearly rather uncomfortable.

"But you're in Camelot."

"Yeah," he mumbled, "I am. It's a bit of a long story." Merlin settled back in his chair. His cadence changed. "I'm originally from a small village in Essetir. In a small town like the one where I grew up, people notice things about you. They notice that their fields are always free of vermin even when neighboring villages complain of swarms. They notice a single mother who never needs firewood. They notice a boy who never gets sick. They notice these things, and they whisper about them.

"My powers were growing too quickly for me to handle. Mother and I were terrified that I'd lose control and be discovered. Then we would both burn." He shuddered. "And one day, I was caught in the act of sorcery. If the discoverer had been anyone other than Will, my only friend, I wouldn't be talking to you right now.

"Will's always been a bit of a rebel and troublemaker. He was angry that I hadn't told him, but he quickly decided that a magical best friend was the best thing ever. He encouraged me, asked me to demonstrate for him and do pranks with him. Like I said, a troublemaker.

"I kept Will's knowledge from my mother for two months. Then she found out just what I was doing with my magic and Will's encouragement. I've never seen her so angry. It was scarier than that griffin we fought. But then she calmed down and gave it some thought, and eventually she decided to send me to Camelot."

"But why?" Lancelot demanded. "I mean—this is  _Camelot_. People with magic—" He cut himself off, but the unsaid words nonetheless echoed around the room.  _People with magic die here._

"Part of it was that I couldn't control my abilities very well," Merlin sighed. "It's an open secret that Gaius used to be a sorcerer—a true sorcerer, not a warlock like me—the only one my mother knew. Well, aside from my father, but he's not an option. She had tried finding druids and other sorcerers while I was younger, but she couldn't. Gaius was the only person she could think of who could teach me control."

Lancelot nodded slowly. He supposed that made sense. If it was a choice between inevitable discovery due to loss of control or taking a risk to gain control and safety, he could understand why Merlin's mother had sent her son here.

"That's the reason she gave me," Merlin continued, "but I think there's another that she didn't want to admit to. I think she wanted to remind me of the price of indiscretion." His eyes darkened. "And I did remember."

Lancelot almost asked what had reminded him, but stopped himself at the last moment. Instead, he asked, "So if you were sent here to learn magic, how did you end up  _serving Uther's son_?"

"There's kind of a funny story about that…."

Merlin spun a tale like nothing Lancelot had ever heard before, a story of dragons and destinies and secrets and lies. He told of an enemy and a guardian both hidden in the shadows. He spoke about Kilgharrah's prophecy (which Merlin admitted he wasn't certain he believed) and of his hope that maybe, just maybe, he could show Arthur that magic wasn't evil. He was still working out how to do that and hadn't really come up with any good ideas yet, but where there's a will there's a way, and he had will enough for ten men. Also, he added, if Lancelot had any suggestions, he was welcome to contribute.

By the time the warlock finished his tale, Lancelot's head was spinning. This was… it was quite a lot of information. It was an insane, fantastical story that made no sense and all the sense in the world. It was bizarre and wonderful and only just beginning.

"Lancelot? Are you all right?"

The failed knight jerked out of his reverie. "Er, I'm fine, Merlin. It's just a lot to take in."

"Oh." Merlin fidgeted. "I guess it is. I mean, obviously it is, but I went through it gradually and had time to adjust. You've just had really crazy day, though."

Lancelot barked a laugh. "You can say that again."

Merlin's lips twitched up. "You've just had a really crazy day, though."

The failed knight shook his head. "I think—I—thank you."

Merlin was honestly startled. "What for?"

Lancelot nearly rolled his eyes. "For saving Camelot. For saving my life. For telling me."

"Oh." The warlock blushed. "You're welcome, I suppose." He was clearly not used to praise.

The soldier laughed again, but this was softer, less harsh. "But I think I have to leave now. It's dark out, see?" He gestured toward the window. Sure enough, the sky outside had gone black. "I need to get back, and I think I need to sleep before I can actually comprehend everything you've told me. Lots of sleep."

Merlin grinned sheepishly. "Yeah. I guess that it kind of is a lot."

"Something like that, yes."

"So I'll maybe see you tomorrow?" Merlin frowned. "Unless you were planning on leaving Camelot. I'm pretty sure Arthur will knight you once he's king, but Uther is…. Well. He's Uther."

Lancelot goggled at him. "Merlin, do you really think I'm going to leave after everything you've just told me?"

"Well, considering that there's an evil sorceress trying to destroy this city and Uther pretty much just spat on your life's dream and you'll technically be committing treason for harboring a sorcerer by staying here and not turning me in, I would think that you'd want to get as far away as possible."

Oh. Lancelot hadn't thought of it like that. He had just heard tell of a city in danger, guarded only by a half-trained youth in constant danger of death, an old physician, and a potentially crazy dragon (a dragon. He didn't think he'd ever get used to that), that would need all the help it could get. He explained this to Merlin and Gaius in short, choppy sentences, unable to articulate his thoughts. He didn't really expect them to understand his babbling.

Except they did, Merlin especially. The warlock's face broke out into a wide grin that lit up the entire room. "You're really staying?"

Lancelot smiled back. "Of course. Camelot is far too interesting to leave."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Lancelot Has Much to Digest, Both Metaphorically and Physically"


	8. Of Beetles and Brains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a(nother) plot against the kingdom, and Merlin comes to a realization about his path.

Chapter VIII: Of Beetles and Brains

Lancelot ended up taking that job as a guard.

It wasn't the knighthood of which he'd dreamed for so long. It wasn't even a particularly prestigious position within the guard, though Leon, with whom he'd struck up a friendship, and Arthur assured him that a man with his skills and dedication would move quickly through the ranks. They predicted that he'd be off the night shift (widely regarded as the most miserable position, reserved for men just starting out unless they bribed the Head of the Guard for something better, which Lancelot had refused to do) within the month.

The would-be knight's days quickly settled into a routine. He would rise at dinnertime and head up to the palace, where he would eat with Merlin and Gaius. They would chat about their days, stories from their pasts, Merlin's magic, anything that came to mind. Then, after helping Merlin wash dishes, he would head to the Head of the Guard's office, where he would receive his dispatch for the night. They usually had him patrol the castle walls, but he occasionally served in the dungeons. Merlin would usually appear and keep him company for a few minutes after he'd set Arthur to bed but before retiring himself. Lancelot thought that the warlock was a bit lonely for someone his own age with whom he could share his true nature. It was a pity because Merlin was such a  _likeable_  young man. They had befriended each other easily, despite the fact that a would-be knight and a warlock really ought to have been mortal enemies.

He put his foot down about meeting Kilgharrah, though. He liked Merlin, he really did, but he wasn't certain if he could handle a dragon.

It was a decent existence, but it had its share of problems. For one thing, his coworkers had absolutely appalling standards. He'd caught them sleeping and playing at dice on the job! Once, he'd even come across a fellow guardsman making out with a kitchen maid in the middle of his shift. It was almost enough to drive him to tears.

He tried complaining to Sullivan, the Head of the Guard, but the lazy man just told him to shut up or resign. Lancelot had replied by going directly to Arthur, who brought it to his father, who threatened to demote Sullivan to the night shift unless he did something about his men. That did lead to increased discipline, but it also led to the other guards resenting Lancelot even more. They hadn't liked him from the start, grumbling that he was putting on airs by aiming for knighthood, not to mention that his diligence made them look bad. This, though, constituted a betrayal.

His second major problem was his longing for Lady Morgana's maidservant, Guinevere, who was (at least to Lancelot's besotted mind) a lady in her own right. He felt a strong attraction to her and she to him, but it was difficult to spend time together when they had such different schedules. Lady Morgana, thrilled that her friend might have found love (or, at the very least, something that could develop into love), started giving Gwen time off in the evening, but she couldn't change the fact that one half of the couple was nocturnal and the other diurnal. Not that Morgana wasn't trying—according to Guinevere, she was taking a personal interest in Lancelot's advancement, which of course made his fellow guards even more disagreeable—but for the moment, their duties kept them apart. He imagined that their duties would keep them apart for a while yet. Sullivan's grudge against him made promotion from the night shift unlikely for the forseeable future.

But routine was routine, and Lancelot found himself settling into Camelot life without much difficulty. It was a good life, Merlin and Gwen's companionship offsetting his disappointment with his job. His belly was full, his dwelling warm. It was not the life he had dreamed of, but it was better than wandering the dusty roads with no guarantee that he'd get another meal or avoid bandits for the night.

And then Morgana fell ill.

* * *

"I have in my possession a remedy to cure all ills. Perhaps I can help Lady Morgana where your court physician could not."

Merlin told himself that he was being paranoid, that it  _could_  simply be coincidence that this robed, scarred man with his oily smile and silk-smooth words had appeared mere hours after Morgana's affliction. Coincidences happened, right? Besides, how would this man have hurt Morgana?

Actually, that was a silly question. The guards had improved somewhat under Uther's watchful eye, but they were still pretty easy to sneak past. He knew. He'd certainly snuck past them often enough.

Why, though, would anyone want to hurt Morgana? She probably had a few enemies somewhere—most nobles did—but none of them were stupid enough to try anything while she lived in Uther's court. After all, the king was not known for his restraint or squeamishness.

But, Merlin reminded himself, just because he couldn't think of any reasons for Muirden to go after Morgana didn't mean that there weren't any. Also, it looked as though the man was trying to depose Gaius, and he didn't particularly want that. With that in mind, he snuck away from Arthur and secreted himself in Morgana's chambers behind the changing screen.

Merlin listened impatiently as Gaius, Uther, and Edwin chatted about medical things and possible diagnoses. The new physician seemed legitimate so far, but Uther was in the room. Merlin had to wait and see if he tried to get Morgana alone.

He did.

Muirden requested permission to carry out a private examination—not, he hastened to add, because Gaius was incompetent, but because his eyes were younger and he might be able to see something the older man had missed. Gaius didn't seem to buy it—Merlin could practically hear him raise his eyebrow—but Uther agreed.

Merlin crouched, his heart hammering in his ears.

" _Bebiede_ —"

Merlin charged.

Edwin Muirden clearly had not anticipated being tackled to the ground by a scruffy manservant. Merlin knocked the older man down; they skidded against the floor at the side of Morgana's bed. The woman in question remained unconscious despite the ruckus around her.

"That had better be a healing spell," Merlin snapped.

Muirden goggled at him, jaw agape.

"Well?" Merlin hissed.

"Who the hell are you?"

"That's not important. Was that or was that not a healing spell?"

"…Do you truly think me fool enough to murder the king's ward when he thinks that I and I alone am with her?" He smiled bitterly, absently raised a hand to his scarred face. "My parents perished in his flames. I too know fire's touch, and I have no desire to feel it again."

Edwin's lack of resistance and his words inclined Merlin toward trusting him. The warlock pushed himself from the other man's prone form, stood. He offered Muirden a hand. The man's eyebrows climbed in a manner reminiscent of the other physician at court. "I'm Merlin."

The other sorcerer stared at the outstretched hand for an eternal moment. Then he extended his own hand, clasped fingers, let Merlin pull him to his feet. "Edwin Muirden."

"Good to meet you."

Edwin, his eyes still on Merlin's face, returned to his position by Morgana's side. "I am going to use the healing magic of the Elanthia beetle," he explained. "They are creatures of magic that act as carriers of spells. Their small size allows them to enter the body and convey healing spells to internal organs and the like without the dangers associated with surgery."

Now that Morgana wasn't in danger, Merlin's natural curiosity reasserted itself. "Can I watch?"

"A lifetime of hiding and persecution has made me… uncomfortable… using my gift when others can see."

"Right." Merlin turned his back, stared at the wall.

" _Bebiede þe arisan áblinnan_ ," Edwin intoned. There was a noise like the rustling of wings and another sound, a box snapping shut. "It's done."

Merlin turned back around, looked down at the sleeping Morgana. She was still pale, still unconscious, but Edwin's spell hadn't killed her. Merlin smiled. "Thank you."

Edwin turned that unblinking gaze onto Merlin. "You are very accepting of magic for a man of Camelot."

"I'm actually from Essetir," Merlin corrected.

"Cenred's lands? He's not much better."

"…My father was a sorcerer. My mother saved him and they fell in love, but Uther's men were hunting him. He had to leave before either of them knew Mother was pregnant."

It was the first time he'd ever told that story to anyone. He had no doubt that Gaius knew—the man had, after all, been present at his birth—but they'd never actually talked about Merlin's paternity, and he hadn't broached the subject with Lancelot either. But the man before him had entrusted him with his family secrets. It felt right to return the favor.

Sure enough, the scarred face softened. "I'm sorry."

"As am I." Merlin looked back at Morgana. "So how do the… Elanthia beetles?" Edwin nodded. "So how do they work?"

"As I said, they act as vessels for spells. They're used for internal medicine. They can stop internal bleeding, destroy blockages, even purge infections. Useful little beasts."

"They sound like it," Merlin replied. Oh, he hoped that Edwin's appearance so soon after Morgana's illness really  _was_  a coincidence. Gaius was very knowledgeable, but he refused to teach Merlin any spells that didn't appear in his spell book. Kilgharrah knew a surprising amount of spells for someone who didn't use human magic (Merlin supposed that was a side effect of a millennium of life), but they couldn't meet as often as he would like. Someone not much older than himself who was actively using magic….

Lancelot was wonderful, but he didn't—couldn't—understand what it was like to have magic. He tried very hard, but some things must be experienced, and magic was one of them. Merlin had dreamt his entire life about finding someone with magic, a friend with whom he could explore it, grow into his gifts. Perhaps—he hardly dared let himself hope—perhaps if it were a coincidence, Edwin Muirden could be that friend.

But, he reminded himself with a sinking heart, he had to make sure.

With that goal in mind, he made his way toward the physician's rooms. "Gaius? Are you in here?"

The physician and the king turned the full force of their attentions to him. Merlin blanched, told himself not to panic. He would just have to wait a little bit before questioning his mentor. So, after babbling out a half-coherent excuse for his interruption that probably made him sound like an utter moron, Merlin fled.

The sight of Uther had planted a nasty suspicion in his head. Edwin had said that his parents died in Uther's fires. He'd strongly implied that his facial scars came from those same flames. So it was probably a bit fishy that he was anywhere near Camelot in the first place.

But if he was only here to kill Uther, shouldn't Merlin just leave him to it? After all, the tyrant of Camelot was a genocidal monster. He had betrayed Kilgharrah's entire species, consigning the dragon race to extinction. He hunted druids like mere animals. Any citizen could strike down a sorcerer—or really anyone unfortunate enough to be accused of sorcery—without repercussion. He sought magic users out, burning them for healing dying children or repairing pottery. He was an evil man, and the children of magic—not to mention the world in general—would be better off without him.

So he should turn a blind eye. Gods knew that Uther would kill him if he had half an opportunity. This was a war, not one Merlin had volunteered for but one which had swallowed him anyways, and he had to fight—to kill, even—to survive. If Edwin was indeed seeking revenge on the man who slew his parents, who was Merlin to stop him? If the man, the murderer hadn't been Uther, he would have. Since it was Uther, he should probably help.

Except he couldn't bring himself to walk up to Edwin and say, "I know you're here to kill the king and I want to help."

It was irrational and ridiculous. He didn't like Uther at all, feared and hated him and everything he stood for. He should be glad that the butcher now had to reap what he had sown. He should go back to Edwin and tell him that if he was going to kill the king, Merlin would turn a blind eye.

Wait. Had he just decided to stand aside and let one man kill another?

Merlin shivered slightly. Camelot had shown him a ruthless streak he had never known, never even suspected, existed. When he'd dropped that chandelier on Mary Collins, he hadn't felt anything until that night, when the realization that he had crushed a grieving mother to death overwhelmed him and he trembled in his cot for hours, tears falling from his eyes. But even as he'd wept, he had known deep in his bones that he would do it again if he had to.

He had always known he had a strong protective instinct. It had driven his poor mother half-mad whenever he brought home another wounded animal or defended her against those who snickered about her lack of husband. He just hadn't known how deep it ran. This new depth frightened him, made him wish he could just go back to Ealdor and work the fields.

But the past is the past. He was here in Camelot, he had things to do, and like it or not, he was in the center of a possible attempt on Uther Pendragon's life.

_A possible attempt,_  the warlock reminded himself,  _just a possible one._   _If_  Edwin Muirden was here to kill Uther, then he would do nothing. He still didn't know, and it wasn't like he could just go up and ask the man if he planned on committing regicide.

So what he needed to do was figure out if the Elanthia beetles were really vessels of healing. Even if Muirden had come here with good intentions, he may or may not have put Morgana's life in danger, and while Merlin was willing to accept Uther's death (the coldness made him shudder), he would  _not_  tolerate collateral damage.

Ruthless he might be, but he had his limits.

Finally, after long hours of polishing and running errands and whatever else Arthur could dredge up from the depths of his imagination (Morgana's illness had made him afraid, which had made him angry, which meant that he was taking his frustration out on his poor helpless manservant), Merlin made his way back to the physician's chambers. He hadn't gotten to eat supper or even visit Lancelot. His body ached like that of an old man. He wanted more than anything to just sleep, but he had to talk with Gaius and deliver Kilgharrah's latest sheep before collapsing into bed.

Except that Gaius was already asleep, his soft snores filling the room.

Merlin groaned. Typical. Just typical. Should he wake the man up? No, the warlock decided. He was meeting Kilgharrah tonight anyways. He'd just ask the dragon about Elanthia beetles.

The warlock moved through the castle and its tunnels like a sleepwalker. Oh, why oh why did Arthur have to work him so hard? Didn't he realize that it was  _physically impossible_  for a single man to complete all those chores without magic unless he didn't need to sleep? Probably not, the great prat.

He told all these things and more to the sheep he was escorting to Kilgharrah. The sheep was a very good listener, which meant that Merlin was feeling a little bit better by the time he reached the dragon. Still, he was irate enough that his scaly friend noticed. "Did you have a bad day, young warlock?"

"Yes," Merlin sighed. He flicked a hand at the sheep, which fell unconscious without further preamble. "A lady who's probably the most decent noble in the entire kingdom was sick. Gaius couldn't cure her, but a man showed up who claimed to have a remedy to cure all ills."

Kilgharrah frowned, his brow furrowing. "There is only one remedy to cure all ills."

"There is? I thought Edwin—that's his name, Edwin—was exaggerating. What is it?"

"Death."

Merlin pulled up short. "Oh."

"Did this kindly noblewoman survive?"

"Yes. She's conscious again. I was there, though, when he healed her. I heard him start a spell, so I confronted him, asked what he was doing. He said that he was using the healing magic of the Elanthia beetle, but…. He didn't let me watch. He had me turn away. Kilgharrah, is that what Elanthia beetles do?"

The look on the dragon's face was answer enough, but he still spoke. "No. Elanthia beetles are creatures of dark magic. Sorcerers have used them to kill their enemies discreetly. The creatures enter through the ears or nose and make their way to the brain. Then they eat it."

Merlin blanched. "They eat brains?"

"Yes."

"Oh," the warlock squeaked. Oh, that was so gross. Disgust overwhelmed him for a few moments before his brain started working again. Morgana had been sick in the brain. Gaius and Edwin had agreed on that, though they hadn't agreed on what, exactly, had been wrong.  _"Oh._ "

Yeah, 'coincidence' was looking less likely by the second.

Disappointment panged in his chest. Merlin flinched. He'd hoped so much that Edwin could be his friend, but if the man was willing to risk Morgana's life….

"I thought," he confessed, "that there was something fishy about him just showing up like that, but…. I think he's the one who hurt her in the first place. I had wondered, but now I think I know." He sighed heavily.

"You must watch this Edwin carefully, young warlock," Kilgharrah cautioned.

"I had planned on it," Merlin told him. "I had hoped that maybe it really was a coincidence, that the Elanthia beetles really were the healing magic he said they were. But…." A low groan escaped his throat.

Anyone who would send beetles to eat a woman's brain should probably not be trusted. The last of his dreams of friendship went up in smoke.

It was with a heavy heart that Merlin returned to his hard pallet, curled up, and fell asleep. He didn't feel any better when he awoke, because that meant that he had to confront Edwin.

But, the manservant reminded himself, he had manservant-y things to do. He wasn't delaying the inevitable 'discussion.' He was just… um… taking care of other duties beforehand so he could devote the entirety of his attention to their encounter. Yes, that was exactly what he was doing.

He threw himself into his tasks with such devotion that Arthur started to worry that his servant was becoming competent.

But though Merlin had intended to wait until evening before speaking with Edwin, it was not to be. Gwen and Morgana, now fully healed, came marching towards them. The lady looked angry, the maid worried. The warlock's heart sank. Why did he have the feeling that this had something to do with Muirden?

Perhaps his childhood gift of prophecy was returning, because his premonition held true. "Uther has fired Gaius," Morgana announced.

"What?" Merlin squawked.

"Yes," Morgana growled, "he's fired a man who served him loyally for decades over just one mistake. I admit that it was a serious mistake, but that's still no reason to throw—"

But Merlin couldn't hear her anymore. He had already run out of earshot.

Gaius was sitting in his chambers, staring blankly at his possessions as though wondering where to start, what to do. He started as Merlin flung open the door. "Merlin?"

"What's happening?" the warlock demanded.

"I have to leave," Gaius replied, his voice strangely blank. "I have been replaced, it seems."

"Gaius, you can't. Edwin made Morgana sick with his Elanthia beetles. I don't know how, exactly, only that he did and—"

"Merlin," the physician interrupted, "did you not hear me? I have been fired. There is nothing I can do." He placed a hand on the table, stared blankly at the room he'd called his own for longer than his ward had been alive. "I cannot stay where there's no longer a use for me."

"So you're just going to give up?" his ward hissed. "You're just going to give in without a fight?"

"Uther has made up his mind."

Merlin could have torn out his hair in frustration. "I won't let this happen," he vowed, and stomped out the door.

Morgana and Gwen were taking care of Arthur. If they couldn't persuade him to intervene (and they probably couldn't. Arthur was something of a Daddy's boy), Merlin would have to find another way. That meant persuading either Uther (not likely) or Edwin (again, not likely) to retain Gaius or not become Court Physician, respectively.

He would start with Edwin. Perhaps the man could be blackmailed into leaving. Yes. That's what he'd do.

Except that Edwin proved very difficult to find. Merlin wandered the castle for about two or three hours, but he might as well have been chasing the wind. Was he avoiding him?

No. It turned out that Edwin had been with Uther the entire time, going over arrangements for his career as Court Physician, whispering poison in the king's ear. While Merlin had no desire to see Muirden triumph, not at Gaius's expense, he definitely didn't want to attract Uther's attention. The man had a nasty habit of throwing anyone who displeased him into the dungeons or the stocks. With that in mind, Merlin decided to tail the king and his new physician until he could get the latter alone.

But that, too, was not to be. Arthur, angry and guilty after Morgana's chewing-out, found him after only a few minutes and literally dragged him by the ear into the training fields, where he was forced to hold the jousting ring for the remnant of the afternoon.

By the time he returned to his chambers, Gaius was already gone.

Anger surged. Scowling, his visage thunderous, Merlin stomped to Edwin's guest chambers, pounded on the door as hard as he could.

The physician's face broke into a cold smile when he saw his visitor. "Merlin. Come in."

Merlin came in. Before the door was even closed, he growled, "Why are you here? And don't tell me you were just passing through. I know you sent the Elanthia beetles to attack Morgana."

The smile widened. "Tell me, Merlin. Why is it that Gaius, who half the kingdom knows used to practice sorcery, survived the Purge? Why was he and he alone spared?"

"He gave up sorcery," Merlin snapped. "So don't—"

"He did worse than that!" Muirden cried. "He did  _nothing!_ He just stood there watching, still and silent and cowardly, as those around him burned! He saved his own sorry hide by betraying his kin!"

"You're lying!" Merlin yelled even as doubt took root in his heart. He always had wondered….

"Oh?" Muirden sneered. "Am I, Merlin?"

"You are." He hoped. He really hoped. "And you have to leave now. I know what you did to Morgana. I will  _not_  let you hurt anyone else!"

"Not even the man who drove away your father?"

The warlock froze. He couldn't even remember how to breathe.

Kill Uther, let him die. Let the tyrant reap what he has sown, let the suffering end. Out with the old and in with the new. Let Uther's reign end; let Arthur's reign begin.

And one day, when all Merlin's secrets were revealed and his innermost self laid bare, he would have to explain to Arthur that he had chosen to let his father, whom he loved, die.

Merlin groaned.

Muirden took that as an admission that Merlin would indeed stand aside. "That's what I thought."

"Leave Camelot or I'll tell both Pendragons you're a sorcerer. I want you gone by sunset tomorrow."

The scarred face twisted into a sneer. "No, Merlin. I think not.  _Forbærne yfel_!"

The stone around Merlin's feet burst into flames. They surrounded him, licking at his boots, threatening to devour him.

Counterspell, counterspell, he didn't know the counterspell! He'd have to make one up. Yes, here's something that might work. The words rose to his tongue. Merlin opened his mouth.

Muirden's door burst open. "Edwin!" Arthur shouted. "My father—"

That was when he noticed the fiery death attempting to consume his manservant.

Merlin stifled a profanity. Great. Now what was he supposed to do?

Muirden and Arthur faced each other, still as stone. The prince's eyes had gone very, very wide. Apparently, the realization that his father had accidentally hired a sorcerer was too much for his poor overwrought brain.

Merlin sighed. At least one good thing had come out of Arthur's intervention. Muirden had lost his concentration when the prince burst in. His flames were small now, small enough for a long-legged youth to jump over.

The warlock crouched, leapt. His lanky form collided once again with Edwin's body, knocked the older sorcerer once again to the floor. This time, though, Merlin had no intention of letting him get up.

Edwin swore. He grabbed at his attacker, magic forgotten in his anger.

Merlin was utterly useless with a sword. He admitted that freely. But that didn't mean he lacked experience in fighting. Far from it. As the only bastard in Ealdor, he had been the local bullies' favorite target. He'd had to learn to defend himself with only a stick or, more often, his bare hands. So while he couldn't hold a candle to a half-trained guardsman in a swordfight, he knew exactly what to do in situations like these.

The warlock's knee jerked up, colliding with Muirden's groin with enough force to make the man shriek girlishly. Taking advantage of the other man's pain, Merlin grabbed the physician's head. He slammed it against the floor.

Muirden went still.

"Merlin!" Arthur jerked his servant to his feet. "What the hell?"

"I'm fine, thanks for asking."

"Bully for you. But what the hell is going on?"

"Muirden's parents were killed during the Purge, so he's here to avenge their deaths," Merlin blurted. "I think he's trying to kill your father."

That snapped Arthur out of his shock. The prince's jaw hardened. "Father has Morgana's illness. With Gaius gone, I thought Muirden—but he can't. Won't." Blue eyes went wide. "Gaius has been training you. Do you know how to cure this?"

Merlin blanched. "I…."

It would be so, so easy and so, so satisfying just to let Uther die.

"Answer me, Merlin.  _Please_."

It was the please that did him in, because Arthur was begging and Arthur  _never_  begged. But his eyes were wide and desperate and terrified and Merlin might be frighteningly ruthless at times, but that cold-bloodedness was nothing to his compassion.

Was he going to regret this later? Yep. Would he curse himself at night? Undoubtedly. But on that far-off future day when he left the lies behind, he would not tell Arthur that he'd just let his father die. For his own sake, for their friendship's sake, for magic's sake, for what would the king do if he found that the only magic user he had ever trusted had collaborated in Uther's death? The resultant loathing would make things a lot more difficult, that was for sure.

"I can try."

"He's in his chambers. Grab whatever herbs you think will help, then go to him immediately. I'll get some guards and take care of Muirden."

"Right."

Merlin did not get herbs. He knew quite well that he didn't need them. All he needed was the counterspell, an incantation he had only heard once.

The warlock stared at the unconscious king who had caused him and his kind so much pain. If he did die…. If he did die, he would die because of incompetence and not for revenge, and Merlin could look Arthur in the eye come morning.

The sorcerer swallowed hard and laid a trembling hand across Uther's ear. " _Bebeode þe arisan ealdu. Áblinnen_."

Gold flashed behind his eyes. Magic surged through him like the blood in his veins, flowed through his hand into the king's skull. The power collided with a dark foreign presence, something that did not belong. The Elanthia beetle.

Merlin pulled his hand away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there was a bit of character-building with Merlin (or perhaps exploration would be better) and something more important: he made his choice. By helping Uther, he pretty much dedicated himself to creating a future where Arthur would voluntarily free magic. You all see how that works, right? He's doing something bad (at least to him. Arthur might disagree) for the sake of the greater good, so now he's more invested in fulfilling the greater good so that the bad thing he did can be justified.
> 
> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein a Creepy Scarred Dude Whose Entire Being Radiates Villainy is Promoted to an Important Court Position and is Allowed to Drug the King Instead of Being Immediately Thrown Into the Dungeons"


	9. The Physician's Apprentice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin knows what he's doing with this whole medicine thing. Well, sort of.

Chapter IX: The Physician's Apprentice

The Elanthia beetle was so small in Merlin's hand. It had to be, of course, to crawl through the human ear canal into the skull. But the ugly, twisted magic that had brought into being made it seem much larger than it actually was.

Merlin shivered and closed his hand around the bug. Its exoskeleton cracked. The foul insect dissolved into dust as life left its body.

Gaius's training took over, and Merlin returned his attention to Uther. No, don't think of him as Uther. He's just The Patient, just someone else who needs healing and isn't a sociopathic killer who should be punished for his crimes against humanity. This was just another patient, nothing more, nothing less. What did he need?

His brain had been nibbled by a bug. Gaius's training had been remarkably thorough, considering how little time they'd managed to spend on it, but they had not yet covered a situation like this. Nibbled brains were hardly a common problem in Camelot.

Gaius had tried to use rosemary and yarrow when he had thought that Morgana's brain was infected. It hadn't worked, of course, but that was because there was an insect still in her head. Probably. He thought. But rosemary would stimulate cerebral circulation, and that…. Actually, he probably shouldn't do that. If the bug had bitten through a blood vessel, the last thing he wanted was more liquid sloshing around The Patient's head. But yarrow was a good place to start. It staunched bleeding, and it could often increase the power of other herbs if it was used in conjunction with them. Chamomile, perhaps. That would help with any possible inflammation. It would also help prevent infection, if he remembered his lessons correctly. And maybe, if there was any lion's mane mushroom left, that might help. He had a vague idea that it was good for ailments of the brain. Yes, it was—it helped memory and kept elders as clever as they'd ever been. Gaius thought this might be because it helped the brain grow or at least not decay.

So he had three herbs that might help. Well, he had three herbs if they actually had any lion's mane left. He thought that they did, but he might be mistaken.

Merlin bustled through the corridors of the castle to Gaius's chambers. The physician had not taken his herbs and tools with him; everything was the way it had been just that morning, before everything went horribly wrong. Merlin set a kettle to boiling with a glance and a thought. Yarrow and chamomile flew into his waiting hands. He shredded the yarrow, dumped it into the still-hot water. If he remembered correctly, yarrow had to steep for ten or fifteen minutes. He could use that time to prepare the chamomile tea, which didn't steep that long (at least, he thought so), and to look for the lion's mane.

Gaius had a special shelf for his fungi. He didn't want them contaminating his other supplies. Merlin rummaged through that shelf as his teas steeped, discarding one mushroom after another before he found a pair of pasty, weedy fungi. Lion's mane. Great. He grabbed the mushrooms, a mortar, and a pestle. Lion's mane had to be powdered or cooked and eaten. He wasn't quite certain how to cook it, so the powder would have to do.

The teas were done. Merlin fished out the soggy, sorry-looking plant parts and threw them onto a dirty dish that he hadn't gotten around to cleaning. He could always do that later. The warlock grabbed the kettles in one hand and his mortar in the other.

Two guards, Lancelot and someone he didn't know, stood at the king's door. Merlin smiled weakly at his friend, who gave him a worried look as he opened the door. "Thanks, Lance."

"Anytime."

Arthur was sitting by his father's bedside, clutching the man's limp hand in his own. The prince started when Merlin opened the door but calmed when he saw that it was only his manservant. "What took you so long?"

"Had to steep the teas," Merlin replied. "And grind the lion's mane. Lion's mane is good for the brain, and since your father just had a bug nibbling at his—"

"Wait." Arthur had gone white. "What do you mean, there's a bug eating his brain?"

"There  _was_  a bug nibbling at his brain," Merlin corrected.

Fortunately, Arthur didn't think to ask how his servant had learned about this bug or why the bug was no longer eating his father's brain. That would have been somewhat difficult to explain. "What have you got there?"

"I'm not Gaius," Merlin told him point-blank. "I'm working off of half-remembered snippets and things that I think I know, but I got chamomile to prevent infection—you really do not want infections in your skull—and inflammation and to help him sleep, yarrow for circulation and its power against infection, and lion's mane because it's good for the brain." He poured a cup of chamomile tea. "Have The Patient drink this."

Arthur tilted the cup. The liquid within dribbled into his father's mouth. "The Patient?" he repeated.

Merlin flushed. "I'm trying very hard not to think about who it is that I'm trying to save."

He cursed himself the moment the words were out of his mouth, but Arthur apparently thought he was referring to nervousness about working on the king rather than reluctance to help a despised psychopath in any way, shape, or form. The prince didn't comment. Smiling slightly with relief, the warlock returned his attention to his healing.

The teacup was empty. Merlin filled it with yarrow tea. "Have him drink this, too."

"Right." Arthur accepted the cup. "Morgana had the bug longer than he did," he mumbled. "She woke up."

"I think that in Morgana's case, the beetle was just meant to incapacitate," Merlin replied, inspecting his mushroom powder for clumps so he didn't have to look at Arthur's face. "But Edwin wanted revenge for his dead parents. He wanted Uther's slow and painful death because his parents died slow and painful deaths by fire."

Arthur's face crumpled. In a very soft voice, the prince asked, "Will he make it?"

"I think so," Merlin sighed, trying not to sound disappointed. A large, ugly,  _shameful_  part of him hoped that he was too late, that Edwin's spell had rid the land of Uther Pendragon and that he, having done all that he was capable of, could live on without guilt. "But—but, Arthur, I don't know much about Elanthia beetles. I don't know how quickly they can work when they want to or if the remedies I'm giving will work. At the very least, I can guarantee that none of these herbs will harm him. Well, unless—he's not allergic to chamomile, is he?"

"No."

"Good."

"Shouldn't you have asked that before giving it to him?"

Merlin whirled on him. "Arthur," he snarled, "I've been living with Gaius for less than half a year, and most of that time I've been chasing after you rather than learning herb-lore. I'm doing the best I can, all right?"

The prince nodded. He wordlessly returned the empty cup to his servant.

Merlin spooned the lion's mane into The Patient's mouth. "Is there any water to wash this down with?"

"Here." Arthur handed him a half-full jug.

"Thanks." Merlin poured the liquid into the cup, then opened The Patient's mouth again and dumped the water in.

"Does he need any more tea?" Arthur asked.

Merlin slumped. "I don't know," he moaned. "I've just learned general things, like what the herbs are used for and a little bit of preparation. I don't know how to calculate dosages."

"No," Arthur mumbled. He was holding his father's hand again. "I shouldn't—of course you don't know."

"I suppose that another cup of each can't hurt him," the warlock said. "I can't think of any side effects of overdose for either of those herbs." He swallowed. Normally the prince would have snapped at him or made some sarcastic comment. He wasn't supposed to just sit there and agree with his manservant, especially not in that almost apologetic tone of voice. "Arthur… he'll get through this." He hesitated, grimaced, then laid an awkward hand on his… yes, his  _friend's_  shoulder. "It's going to be okay."

"Of course," the prince sniffed, his usual high-handedness sounding distinctly forced. "He's the king. It will take more than some foul bug to kill him."

"If you say so," Merlin muttered.

"I do say so," Arthur growled. The cords in his neck bulged. His fists were clenched and shaking slightly. He didn't shift his gaze from his father's still form. But he leaned into Merlin's touch ever-so-slightly. "Is there anything else you can do?"

"I can't think of anything," Merlin confessed. "I hadn't even heard of Elanthia beetles until now. They're not exactly common. I'm focusing on preventing an infection and stopping any possible bleeding, but I don't even know if the stupid bug bit through a blood vessel or anything, and it's not like I can just open up The Patient's head and take a look. I'm going in blind, Arthur, but I'm doing the best I can." He squeezed his friend's shoulder. "Maybe we could send for another healer? Gaius can't have been the only physician in town."

Arthur leapt to his feet with such speed that he nearly knocked Merlin over. "Guards!" he bellowed, making for the door. "I need—"

The door swung open, revealing Lancelot, what's-his-name, and Gaius.

Arthur pulled up short. "But you left," he said blankly.

The physician smiled slightly. "I came back." He took in Uther's still form. The smile vanished. "What happened?"

"Elanthia beetle," Merlin explained.

Gaius's eyes went very wide. "Those are creatures of the darkest magic!"

"I figured that out, yeah."

"Are the beetles still—?"

"No." Merlin shook his head, praying that Arthur and the not-Lancelot guard wouldn't ask any questions. "I got it out, then gave The Patient yarrow and chamomile and lion's mane."

"Chamomile?"

"For infections," Merlin explained.

"Yes, I suppose that makes sense. How much?"

"Um, two cups of yarrow tea, two cups of chamomile, and some lion's mane."

The eyebrow shot up, disappearing into Gaius's hairline. "How much lion's mane?"

"…I didn't measure." Merlin squirmed.

Gaius shook his head in amazement. "Did you measure the chamomile and yarrow, at least?"

"I told you, two cups each!"

The physician nodded. "Yes, I heard. But how much herb did you put into the teas, and how long did you steep them?"

"About ten minutes for the yarrow and six for the chamomile. I don't know how much I put in, but I can find out. I didn't throw out the herbs yet."

Gaius grimaced. Merlin cringed. He felt very small inside. But when his mentor spoke, it was not to remonstrate. "You've done well for someone with so little training. Fetch my spectacles, Merlin. I'll need to make a full examination."

"Right."

The warlock bustled off. He wasn't gone for more than five minutes, but by the time he returned, the guard who wasn't Lancelot was gone and Uther was awake.

Merlin hung back in the doorway, torn between avoiding the king's attention and giving Gaius his spectacles. Arthur, looking up, made the decision for him. He made an impatient gesture, his face settling into its usual expression of exasperation. Ducking his head, Merlin entered the room, wordlessly handed the spectacles to his mentor.

As Gaius adjusted his spectacles, Uther turned the full force of his gaze on the physician's ward. Merlin told his thundering heart to shut up. His heart didn't listen. He remained perfectly still under the king's appraisal even though he wanted to squirm or, better yet, leave. Sweat prickled the warlock's brow as Uther frowned.

"I don't  _bite_ , boy," the monarch snapped. Merlin nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden noise. Uther scowled, turned to his old friend. "Skittish little thing, isn't he?"

"Sometimes, yes," Gaius agreed. "I need to inspect your ears now, sire."

Uther obligingly tilted his head. The king returned his attention to Merlin, his expression still angry but now a touch bewildered. "I understand from my son that you saved my life."

Merlin had to swallow twice before he could speak. "Well, yes. Sort of. I think. That is, I'm not sure if I actually did because I don't know if the herbs actually did anything, but I certainly didn't kill you." He bobbed his head. "Which, you know, should be obvious, seeing as you do not seem to be dead. Um. Sire."

Gaius stopped his inspection of the king's ears to gawk at his ward. Arthur, too, goggled as though his manservant had sprouted a second head. Merlin flushed.

Uther's anger was rapidly losing ground to his confusion. "Do you have some sort of mental affliction?" he demanded.

"…Probably."

"So I owe my life to an idiot?"

"So it would seem," Gaius muttered, returning to his inspection of the king's ear.

Uther grimaced. "How humiliating," he muttered under his breath.

"Now you know how I feel," Arthur sighed.

"I believe you will make a full recovery, sire," Gaius announced. The old man was smiling, genuinely glad that the king would survive.

Merlin's stomach clenched. He thought of Edwin's spiteful words, the man's hate and anguish and the seeds of doubt he'd planted in the other sorcerer's heart.

_Tell me, Merlin. Why is it that Gaius, who half the kingdom knows used to practice sorcery, survived the Purge? Why was he and he alone spared? He did_ nothing _! He just stood there watching, still and silent and cowardly, as those around him burned! He saved his own sorry hide by betraying his own kin!_

The warlock told his inner Edwin voice to shut up. Sickness bubbled in his belly, choked his throat. He was only vaguely aware of Uther talking with Gaius until the former asked, "And how shall I reward you, boy?"

"Huh?" Merlin blinked owlishly at him.

Uther winced. "A reward," he enunciated slowly and clearly. "For capturing the sorcerer and potentially saving my life."

"Oh." Bile rose. He'd saved Uther's life, betraying his kin in the process. Admittedly, Edwin had been trying to immolate him and had risked Morgana's life, but the point remained that Merlin had handed a fellow magic user over to Camelot's dungeons. "I—I don't want one." Which was true. The thought of accepting reparation for saving Uther's life nearly doubled the churning in his belly. "I don't." Not from you.

Uther inspected the servant with an unreadable expression. "Very well then. But I will remember this, Merlin."

Merlin's eyes went very, very, very wide.

Uther glared. Merlin barely stopped himself from cringing. "Is there any particular reason that you're behaving like this?"

Oh dear. Merlin's thoughts skittered, bounced off one another as he searched for an answer that wouldn't get him killed on the spot. Fortunately, he had a good and completely plausible excuse. "The mortaeus flower," he blurted. "I—I got the impression then that you didn't particularly like me or, you know, approve of my continued existence."

"The mortaeus flower?" Uther repeated.

"You didn't want Arth—the prince, I mean—you didn't want him to go to the Cave of Balor." Merlin swallowed. "And when he got back, you didn't—you didn't want the prince to get the flower to me. So I'm fairly certain that you don't want me around."

Uther was frowning, but he didn't say anything.

Merlin forced himself to grin toothily. It probably came out as more of a grimace, though, because Gaius asked, "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," Merlin replied. "Did you need anything else, Gaius?"

"Not yet, but I may need you to fetch something later."

"Right." Merlin nodded several more times than was strictly necessary.

"I assure you, sire," Gaius muttered, "he does not get it from my side of the family."

"Good," replied the bemused king.

Merlin frowned. He  _was_  right there, thank you very much.

Gaius finished his inspection. "All seems to be well," he announced. "I would recommend bed rest for the rest of the day and an easy load tomorrow, just to be safe, but you're doing quite well."

He still sounded relieved, affectionate, almost. Merlin's stomach twisted as the memory of Edwin's accusations echoed through his skull.

He didn't want to think of Gaius as a traitor. He loved Gaius. He didn't always agree with the man (usually, he realized with a sinking feeling, about whether or not he should take action to save people), but Gaius had taken him in, a country hick from Ealdor whose true nature could get them both killed. He didn't want to believe Muirden's poisonous words.

But truth does not care who does and does not believe it. If Gaius really had done as Muirden had said, the past would not change simply because Merlin didn't like what had happened all those years ago.

He watched the king and the physician more closely. Yes, there really was affection there. Gaius genuinely liked Uther. Uther the killer, Uther the genocide. Uther, who would kill Merlin the moment he discovered his magic.

How could Gaius actually like that man?

His inspection finished, Gaius began tidying the teas that Merlin had brought in. Apparently Uther was to take the tea in a few hours and then again in the morning.

"Come, Merlin."

The younger man followed. Lost in his thoughts, he was even clumsier than usual, nearly tumbling down a flight of stairs. Not one word passed his lips.

Gaius noticed, of course. The instant they were back in the court physician's chambers, he turned and asked, "Are you quite certain that you're well?"

"Yeah. I'm fine."

"Really?" Gaius deployed his weapon of choice, the dreaded eyebrow. "You don't look it. What's on your mind, Merlin?"

"It's nothing, okay?" he snapped.

Gaius frowned, and Merlin instantly winced in guilt. Then he was angry, for why should he feel guilty when Gaius was the one who had done wrong?  _He_  hadn't betrayed magic, that was for certain.

Or had he? He'd healed Uther. He'd spelled the beetle from the mad king's brain. He'd let him live. And for what? The hope that his son, who had been raised to hate magic, would one day welcome it into the kingdom.

Thoughts of his own treachery should have made him angrier. Instead, it calmed his rage. His actions might have betrayed his kin, but his heart had not. Maybe—and he hoped this was the case—maybe, just maybe, Gaius had done the same. He hoped so.

But he didn't  _know._

"Merlin?"

Whatever Gaius had done all those years ago, he cared for Merlin. The warlock could see that now, hear the concern in his voice. The last of his anger drained. "It's nothing, Gaius. Just…." He chewed his lip, wondering how much to tell him. "…Like I said, it's not important."

"You're hardly acting like it's something unimportant." The concern in his voice was more pronounced than ever.

Blast. Now he had to get answers or he'd be tossing and turning all night. "It's something Muirden said. He said that you only survived the Purge by betraying magic."

"And you believe him?" Gaius's tone was neutral, but Merlin could hear the undercurrent of strain.

"What happened during the Purge?"

"Many things," Gaius sighed.

"That's not what I meant, Gaius, and you know it."

Merlin's heart hammered in his chest. He wished he'd remained silent, because he just knew he was going to regret this.

Gaius was silent for a long while. When he finally broke the silence, his words seemed louder than they actually were. "For so long, I told myself that Uther's madness would end, that I just had to keep my head down and coax him back to sanity. I saw so many die, and… in many ways, Merlin, I tried to justify it. There were many sorcerers who abused magic. So many…."

"But there were many who did not," Merlin said.

The physician sighed. Every one of his years weighed down his shoulders. "I know. And perhaps I could have saved more, could have pushed Uther more…. But you understand the fear, Merlin." He smiled sadly, eyes tired. "I know you have, for you have mastered it. You are so much braver than I have ever been, and I am so very proud of you for that."

A lump rose in Merlin's throat. He blinked rapidly.

"For such a long time, I pushed the guilt aside, told myself that I could have done nothing more than what I did. Then you came into my life, young and foolish and so very brave, and… I confess that there are times you make me ashamed, Merlin, as well I should be. But you have given me hope as well, for in you I have seen two things that make me feel there is still a purpose to my life."

Merlin leaned forward ever so slightly. "Those two things. What are they?"

Gaius's sad smile morphed into a smile of happiness. "They are two dreams that I had long since given up: redemption for myself, and freedom for our kin. You are my—all magic's—greatest hope, Merlin, and you are my truest hope as well."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got the herbal information from www.herbslist.net. I've probably bungled the knowledge somehow, but that's my fault and not the web site's. Or maybe Merlin's, because he's only been learning medicine for a little while and isn't 100% certain of what he's doing. Yeah, let's all blame Merlin. :)
> 
> So basically, bonding all around, and Uther now thinks that his son's servant is a lunatic.
> 
> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Merlin Continues to Prove Himself the Great and Terrible Bane of All Invertebrates"


	10. Uther's Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Muirden is put to death and a new villain arrives.

Chapter X: Uther's Justice

Edwin Muirden was executed at high noon the next day.

Uther insisted on viewing the execution himself. He claimed that the people had to see that their king was not cowed by a sorcerous attack so close to home, that he still stood strong against the evils of magic. Merlin secretly wondered if Uther had another motivation, if he secretly liked watching his enemies burn.

For that was Muirden's sentence: death by burning. Never mind that the sky rumbled with distant thunder or that rain had soaked the pyre wood during the night. Never mind that Muirden had already suffered so much from fire. He would burn, and it would be a slow, painful death.

Merlin's heart writhed within him as he watched the guards drag the scarred physician to his death. Edwin had clearly been beaten. The section of his face that wasn't scarred was deeply bruised, blue and black and sickly green staining his skin. He shuffled along with a limp, possibly on a broken leg.

And Merlin watched.

Muirden was not a good man. He had risked Morgana's life in his scheme to kill Uther. His attack on Merlin was self-defense, or at least close enough to self-defense that Merlin could almost forgive him for it, and the warlock couldn't blame him for wanting Uther dead. Yet risking Morgana's life so callously when she had done nothing to him, when she was a good and wonderful woman who did everything in her power to curb Uther's excesses and donated generously to the poor and was so kind to her servant Gwen, was something he could not condone.

Yet he wasn't being sentenced to death for his true crime. Instead, Uther had condemned him for sorcery and attempted regicide.

Which of those charges, Merlin wondered, merited death on slow-burning wet wood? Regicide? Sorcery? Both together? Thomas Collins had been killed by beheading.

Muirden caught sight of Merlin in the crowd. Rage flared in his eyes, rage and betrayal. He knew now that Merlin had magic, for how else could he have coaxed the Elanthia beetle from Uther's skull? He'd tried to accuse the other warlock at his farce of a trial, but for once in his life, Uther did not automatically turn on someone accused of sorcery. He understood revenge, the king had sneered. He knew perfectly well that Muirden was just looking for a way to drag his capturer down with him.

And now Muirden was looking at him, one sorcerer to another, and Merlin wanted nothing more than to look away, to cringe with shame, but he had come for a reason and he was going to do it if it killed him.

" _Why?_ " Muirden cried silently. His voice bounced around Merlin's skull like Kilgharrah's had those first few nights in Camelot. It was thought-speech, meant for Merlin and Merlin alone. " _Why?_ "

Just one word, but it was all that needed to be said.

Tears stung the other warlock's eyes. " _I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to die."_

The guards had finished tying Muirden—Edwin—to the stake. Uther began blathering on about evil magic and magical evil and how he prided himself on being a  _just_ and _fair_  king, so he was going to kill a man scarred by fire with fire, prolonging his death with damp wood. Edwin would writhe for several minutes before his body gave out.

" _I don't care about me dying,"_  Edwin cried, his mental voice saturated with anguish. " _Why did you heal Uther? I could die happily knowing that that murderer was dead."_

" _For Arthur,"_ Merlin whispered.

Edwin made a noise that was half-laugh, half-sob. He shook his head in disbelief.

" _What's more important, Edwin: revenge on Uther or peace between magic and mundane?"_  He didn't give the other man a chance to answer.  _"It's peace. I think that Arthur can broker that peace if I can convince him that magic is good, and I don't think I can do that if magic kills his father and another warlock—if I—just stood aside and let that happen. He needs to trust a sorcerer for there to be peace. That's why I saved him."_  He swallowed hard. " _I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."_

" _You are a fool,"_  Muirden snarled.

Merlin's eyes leaked tears. " _I know. But…."_  He swallowed again, looked up, blinked the tears from his eyes.  _"But I swear to you that I will do everything in my power to see magic free. I swear to you that one day, when Arthur reigns, the ban will crumble to ashes in the breeze."_

" _A fool,"_ Muirden groaned. He slumped against the stake.

" _I swear it!_ " Merlin roared.

Uther's speech ended. He held out his hand for a long, lingering moment, and then he let it drop.

The guard lit the pyre.

Edwin cried out, unable to help himself. Then, scowling ferociously at his perceived weakness, he clamped his mouth shut. Yet he could not keep the sheer terror from his face.

" _Merlin."_

The other warlock looked up to Muirden's pleading gaze.  _"I swear it,_ " he vowed yet again.

" _I don't want to die by fire,"_  Edwin choked out. Flames lapped at his feet. " _Can you…?_ "

Merlin choked on a sob. " _I can."_  It was, after all, why he had come.

" _Then make it quick."_

Merlin nodded. His tears flowed again, staining his cheeks. His hands trembled as he whispered the spell under his breath. " _Swefne._ "

Edwin went limp, head lolling to the side. He wouldn't feel a thing.

Merlin let his magic flow instinctively, directing the deadly gases fire produced into Edwin's mouth and nose. From then on, it was a simple matter of keeping the healthy air away from him until he stopped breathing.

_Murderer. I am a monster._

But what else could he do? It was this or let Edwin burn, and how could he subject anyone to that kind of torment?

It hurt. It was one thing to kill in the heat of battle, to defend himself and those around him, as he had done with Mary Collins. It was another thing entirely to just stand there, silent and still, feeling his magic sap the life from a fellow sorcerer. He had come here knowing that Edwin was likely to ask, knowing that no matter what happened, this death was still his fault.

The fire burned.

Rain dripped from the heavens, not nearly enough to extinguish the raging fire but just enough that Merlin's tears might have another explanation. It was dangerous to be caught sympathizing for a sorcerer.

Sometimes, it felt like everything in Camelot was dangerous. And it was—at least for him.

The crowds began to trickle away. They'd seen what there was to see, and few people had the stomach to watch a fellow human being, sorcerer or not, be scorched and roasted like a ruined poultry. Yet Merlin waited, tears mingling with rain on his cheeks, staring dully at the flames as they rendered Edwin Muirden's mortal shell to ash.

A hand touched his shoulder. Merlin jumped nearly a foot. He tried to twist around in midair, but his legs tangled beneath him and he would have fallen had Arthur not caught him.

The prince was frowning at him. Merlin swallowed, wondering if Arthur recognized the tear tracks on his face. He hoped not. Trying to look as innocent as possible, the servant followed his employer into the castle.

Arthur led him to his room, where he gestured at Merlin to pour a goblet of wine. For once, the servant obeyed without a word, handing the ruby liquid over quickly in a vain attempt to hide the shaking in his hands. Arthur looked almost surprised at Merlin's attention to duty. Frowning, he handed Merlin another goblet. "Drink."

"I don't really drink," Merlin mumbled. He couldn't afford to drink. In Ealdor, he'd sometimes imbibed just a little too much, just enough to make him tipsy, but it undermined his control over his magic. If he was stupid enough to drink more (which hadn't happened in years), he would start spouting incomprehensible prophecies. The one time he'd continued past that point, he had ended up chattering away in the Old Tongue, despite never having heard a word of that language in his entire life. At least, that was what his mother said had happened. He still couldn't remember that night.

Arthur pressed the cup into his servant's hands. "I gave you an order, Merlin," he sniffed. "As my servant, you are obligated to obey."

Merlin sighed heavily but poured himself an inch of wine. He gave it a sip and suppressed a grimace. Arthur might think that this stuff was delicious, but he firmly believed that wine was an acquired taste, one which he had not acquired.

"Why did you attend the burning, Merlin?"

Merlin shrugged. "Don't know." He winced internally at the lie, but he could hardly tell Uther Pendragon's son that he had come to offer a more merciful death.

And then he remembered his solemn vow, spoken not even half an hour ago. _I swear to you that I will do everything in my power to set magic free_ , he had promised. What better way to start than here and now, using Edwin's death as the catalyst? It seemed fitting somehow, a last gift to his broken kin.

Merlin licked his lips, took another sip of wine to gain time. After swallowing, he murmured, "I guess I felt sorry for him."

Arthur was incredulous. "He tried to kill my father!"

"And what would you have done if he did?" Merlin asked.

"I'd have hunted him down and given him to the executioner," was the prince's prompt reply. His face darkened. "Assuming that I let him live that long."

Merlin nodded. "Exactly. You would take revenge against the person who hurt you and yours. Well, I've been talking to Gaius, and he knew Muirden's parents. They were both sorcerers, and when the Purge began, they were among the first to burn." He stared at his ruby wine. It was darker than flame, more placid, but torchlight danced across its surface. "Those scars on his face? He got them because he had to watch his mother and father die. He somehow managed to break free of the people restraining him and ran right into the fire. He tried to pull his mother away, but the guards caught up with him a moment later and dragged him away kicking and screaming. He saw his parents die, Arthur, and while that doesn't condone what he did, I just… felt sorry for him." He shrugged helplessly.

Arthur was frowning. "You're forgetting one thing, Merlin."

"What's that?"

"His parents were sorcerers, traitors to the crown and kingdom. My father is the king."

Merlin snorted. "Try explaining that to a little boy who just saw his parents set on fire for something that had been legal the week before."

Arthur's grip tightened on his goblet. "Careful, Merlin. You're skirting on treason."

This was plainly affecting Arthur. For the first time since Gaius left, Merlin felt hope prickle his heart. But should he quit while ahead or press on?

Well, his mother always said that he never knew when to quit.

"I'm not saying that he was right to try to kill the king," Merlin said. "I just wish he'd never felt the need." He shrugged, still staring into his wine. He could see Arthur's reflection in the placid liquid.

Arthur's jaw was tight, the cords in his neck a bit more pronounced than usual. "If he hadn't dabbled in magic, perhaps he could have resisted the urge."

Merlin  _resisted the urge_  to punch him. He settled for shaking his head. "I think you've got it backwards. You wanted revenge too, and you're not a sorcerer. I think that Muirden decided he wanted revenge, then used sorcery as a tool to get that revenge. Maybe using something so forbidden made him accustomed to breaking the rules, but I think that the intention was there even before the magic."

Arthur slammed his goblet down. Wine sloshed over the rim. The wine in Merlin's cup quivered in response. "A word of advice, Merlin: Don't think. You're not very good at it."

"And you are?" Merlin grumbled, slipping back into their familiar banter with gratitude.

But Arthur didn't want to play. His face was dead serious. Was that a good thing? Did it mean that Merlin's words had struck a chord, that Arthur saw something of himself in a sorcerer, that he was finally beginning to understand that things weren't anywhere near as black and white as Uther pretended? Merlin held his breath.

"Since you wasted most of the morning, you'll actually have to work for the rest of the day. I want you to dust and sweep the entirety of my room, polish all the candlesticks, replace my beddings, and muck out the stables. They'd better be clean as a whistle when I come to inspect them, Merlin, or I'll have you in the stocks all week. When you're done with that, get back here and I'll have more chores for you. And give me that," he added, grabbing Merlin's mostly untouched cup. "Why I bothered wasting it on you I'll never know."

"Maybe because—"

"Out!"

Merlin scurried away. Hopefully Arthur would cool down by the time he was done in the stables. It was possible even for a man with Arthur's temper. The state of the stables was truly atrocious.

The warlock sighed heavily, ran a hand through his damp hair, as he thought about Arthur's stubbornness. He had a long and difficult task ahead of him.

Merlin looked around the stables again, wincing at the filth. Make that  _two_  long and difficult tasks.

* * *

Part of Arthur felt bad about driving Merlin off like that. It was obvious that the boy had never seen anyone burn before; that was why he had invited his manservant to sit and drink with him for a few minutes, just long enough to recover his composure. But then Merlin had gone on about feeling sorry for him and about the nature of revenge and other things that Arthur had never really thought of, and the prince had pushed him away.

He had never really seen himself in a sorcerer before. Before, they were just traitors and criminals who wanted him and his father dead for absolutely no reason. Now….

Which came first, the sorcery or the plan?

Arthur was no sorcerer, but he knew that if someone killed Uther, he would gut the wretch. Muirden had lost both his parents.

For a crime, Arthur reminded himself. Of course Muirden hadn't understood the reason for his parents' deaths as a child, but he was a man now, capable of understanding the necessity of law.

He kept Merlin busier than usual the next few days. It wasn't because he was trying to avoid the man and his piercing words. Certainly not. It was punishment for being such a lazy sod and it doubled as preparation for the hunting trip he intended to take the moment the weather cleared.

Cooped indoors with few duties to attend to, Arthur was plagued by thoughts he would gladly have done without. Thoughts like how he had felt when Uther lay on what might have been his deathbed, knowing that the man who had done that to him still breathed. Thoughts like his knights tearing into a druid camp, its inhabitants fleeing in terror while he watched with frozen horror. Thoughts like a playful light in a spider-filled cave that seemed determined to disprove his father's claims that all magic was malevolent.

Arthur did not like to think about the implications of those thoughts. He wanted to go on believing that magic was evil and that his father was right to attack it so… zealously. Uther had to be right, because if he wasn't, then he had let children die for no good reason. They both had.

The skies remained gray for nearly a week. Rain fell in the nights and sometimes in the day. Once, it sprinkled in the afternoon before developing into a full-blown thunderstorm that evening. Arthur's mood darkened further every time he looked out the window and saw a cloudy sky. The servants (except, of course, Merlin) took to avoiding him. By the time the sun returned, he was in such an absolutely foul mood that even Uther hesitated to go near him.

But the sun did return, and the second it did, Arthur dragged Merlin out on a hunting trip. He needed to get outside, to breathe, to escape his thoughts for a few glorious hours and release some of the anger churning inside him. He was up before dawn, much to Merlin's unhappiness, and the two of them left the city when the grass was still wet with dew. It was at this point that he realized the somewhat obvious flaw in his plan: it was rather difficult to stay away from Merlin (not avoiding him, oh no, just making him do important chores that kept him and his words far from Arthur) when the two of them were alone in the forest. Fortunately, he had a ready-made excuse to keep the boy quiet. "We're on a hunting trip, Merlin. That means none of your mindless babble."

"What mindless babble?"

Arthur glared. Merlin grinned, unrepentant as usual. "Just be quiet."

Merlin bowed mockingly, but he obeyed. Well, sort of. He had a nasty habit of stepping on sticks whenever they got too close to a potential kill. Not for the first time, Arthur wondered if his soft-hearted manservant was scaring away the game on purpose. It was exactly the sort of thing he would do.

Still, despite Merlin's twig-breaking, Arthur could feel himself relaxing. The muscles in his shoulders loosened, knots fading away. Tension drained from his neck and jaw.

Here, he didn't have to worry about anything. Here, he had no responsibilities, no burdens, no disappointed father and whispering courtiers. Here in the sun and breeze, surrounded by pine and oak, he was free. He almost didn't mind Merlin's potentially-deliberate sabotage.

Almost.

Eventually, despite Merlin's best efforts, he managed to shoot a pair of hares. Not much of a prize, but he had always liked the taste of hare meat and the animals were small enough that they wouldn't squish Merlin on their way back home. Still, he wanted to get a bigger prize, so he knelt down in the dirt, seeking out tracks in the muddy ground.

After several minutes of searching, he found the imprint of a deer's hoof. Arthur smiled. "Be quiet, Merlin. And quit breaking sticks."

"How?" the servant grumbled. "In case you haven't noticed, we're in the middle of a forest. Forests are full of trees, which produce sticks, which litter the ground and make it impossible—"

"Didn't I just tell you to shut up?"

"No, you told me to be quiet. And I am."

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"I'm speaking quietly," Merlin sniffed.

Arthur lowered his eyebrow and rolled his eyes. "Don't." Then, before Merlin's inevitable retort, he added, "Don't speak at all, I mean."

Merlin huffed.

"Don't do that either."

The servant grinned. Arthur was strongly tempted to make him quit that too, but he knew well the boy well enough to realize it would be a colossal waste of time.

They carried on in relative silence, broken only by birdsong and Merlin's infernal stick-cracking. Arthur told himself that he could not throttle Merlin. If he tried, Merlin would only struggle, and that would make even more noise than his possibly-on-purpose stumbling, which would scare off the rest of the game. That, and he needed someone to carry his kills.

Soon they found the source of the tracks, a fine young buck. Arthur grinned. He could already taste the venison. He signaled Merlin to get into position.

Merlin blinked at him, no comprehension in his eyes.

Arthur grit his teeth. Honestly, how hard was it for the dolt to understand a few elementary signals? Fed up, he gestured for Merlin to stay out of the way and let him do his business. Merlin appeared to interpret the gesture as 'something is behind you,' because he looked over his shoulder with an expression of mild alarm. Arthur sighed silently and loaded his crossbow. He took aim at the buck's eye.

A woman's scream rent the air.

Arthur's shot went awry, but he no longer cared. The deer bolted, but he didn't care about that either. He was a knight, a protector of the innocent, and he had been born to save the folk of his kingdom.

The prince dropped his crossbow, which had never been his best weapon, opting instead to draw his sword. He charged towards the scream, leaving his bow behind. He could always pick it up later—or, even better, send Merlin to pick it up.

A trio of hairy, unwashed men was attacking a young woman and an older man with a gray beard. The woman—a girl really, her face smooth as silk—was screaming still, kicking desperately at one of the bandits as he tried to yank her off her horse. The graybeard was trying to hold off the other two with his staff, but it was clear that he couldn't last much longer. Even as Arthur sprinted toward the fray, the staff went flying from the man's grip.

The girl was closest to Arthur. He ran past her, sword outstretched, cutting into the bandit's back. He screamed, grabbing instinctively at the wound as blood gushed forth.

The other two bandits, hearing their comrade's cry, turned their attention from the graybeard to the real threat. And also to Merlin, who was following in his master's footsteps, but mostly on the actual threat.

The fight was short and easy, the bandits fleeing when it became clear that Arthur could easily take them both on. They didn't even bother to look after their companion, the cowards. Arthur didn't give chase, though he glared belligerently as they ran.

"Don't touch that!" the woman shrieked.

_Thwack. Thud._

Arthur jumped, spun.

Merlin was standing behind him, the graybeard's staff gripped tight in his hands. The third bandit lay unconscious at his feet. His temple was already starting to swell where the stave had hit him.

"You're welcome," Merlin said.

Then the girl was there, jerking the staff out of his hands. "Don't touch that," she spat. Merlin held up his hands in the universal gesture of peacemaking as she returned the stave to her father.

It was a rather strange staff, an irregular length of knotted wood covered in angular runes and topped by a blue crystal. A very large blue crystal, though he had no idea what it was. Certainly it couldn't be a sapphire? Whatever it was, it was probably worth more than Merlin's entire village back in Essetir.

The girl had another crystal-topped staff, which she held in her other hand as her father reclaimed his. Heirlooms, perhaps, or scepters. The finery of their clothing indicated that they were wealthy nobles, but their cloaks were dusty from travel, and both travelers seemed weary to their bones.

But despite her weariness, the girl was still absolutely beautiful.

Arthur smiled slightly, dropping into a shallow but courtly bow. He raised the girl's soft hand to his lips, pressed a chaste kiss to the white skin.

Beside him, Merlin made a gagging noise.

"Arthur Pendragon, prince of Camelot, at your service," he proclaimed.

The girl smiled. "My name is Sophia Tir-Mor."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Merlin Breaks a Great Multitude of Sticks"
> 
> So angst. Lots of angst. But I guess it's good angst because it's got Arthur thinking? As much as Arthur can think, anyways.


	11. Sophia Tir-Mor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet another villain gains the royal family's trust.

Chapter XI: Sophia Tir-Mor

A part of Morgana was disappointed that Uther still drew breath.

She was not proud of that part of her being. She didn't like it at all, would be happier if that segment of her soul did not exist. Nonetheless, it was very, very real.

Uther lived, and her life was still in danger.

Her dreams were magical. She and Gwen knew that now, had known it for weeks. They had warned her about the griffin (which hadn't been spotted for quite a while, now that she thought about it), about Edwin Muirden, and now about a pretty, baby-faced girl in a yellow dress who was coming to kill Arthur.

"It sounds as though she's a noblewoman," Gwen said after Morgana had finished telling her about this latest nightmare. "Perhaps a foreign one, since you don't recognize her."

Morgana smiled. Wonderful, loyal Gwen. She didn't know what she would do without her maid and friend. It took a brave, true soul to stand by a woman with magical dreams.

And that was another reason that the small, shameful part of her wished Uther had died at Muirden's hand. Gwen would be so much safer with Arthur on the throne. Instead, Muirden had died, had burned—though not before he'd accused Merlin of all people of sorcery. Fortunately, not even Uther was fool enough to believe that Merlin, who had enabled Muirden's arrest by knocking him out and then gone to on to (possibly) save the king's life, had magic. Anyone could see that Muirden's accusation was nothing more than a condemned man's revenge.

Gwen continued, "I can't think of any foreign visitors coming here until the end of the month. What were their names again?"

"It's a representative from Olaf. Lord Humphrey is a dear old man, but I know his daughters and they don't look a thing like the woman in my dream."

"Humphrey, that's right," Gwen murmured. "That rules out the possibility of a mistress. He and Lady Ariadne are so sweet together."

"He might be bringing a son along," Morgana mused. "His sons don't exactly take after their parents in the marital bliss department. They might have a mistress."

"Or a granddaughter of Humphrey's," Gwen suggested. "You said this woman is a teenager, twenty at the oldest. Isn't Humphrey's oldest grandchild fifteen?"

"Fifteen or sixteen, yes. I can't remember if her birthday is in summer or autumn. But I don't think it's her."

"But it could be," Gwen pointed out.

Morgana sighed heavily. "I suppose I'll know her when I see her," she grumbled. "But what should we do about her drowning Arthur?"

Gwen frowned, brow furrowing. "Warn Arthur, I suppose."

"How? Go up to him and say, 'Good morning, Arthur dear, I have magical dreams that let me see the future and I foresaw a complete stranger try to drown you for no conceivable reason'?"

"…Perhaps I spoke without thinking."

Morgana cracked a smile. "Maybe tonight I'll end up on the dream road. My guide might give me more information."

Gwen nodded. "Yes, I suppose that's as good a plan as any. Whoever she is, we do have time before she gets here."

Later, Gwen would look back on those words and wonder if she had jinxed it, for early that afternoon, her mistress was called on to attend the presentation of Lord Aulfric Tir-Mor and his daughter Sophia. Apparently Arthur had saved them from bandits on a hunting trip. Morgana watched in steadily increasing horror as Aulfric wove a sob story about losing their lands and loved ones, then being forced to flee with only the clothes on their backs and a few heirlooms salvaged from the wreckage.

Uther, naïve idiot that he was, welcomed them. He invited them to stay for a few days, enjoy Camelot's hospitality before continuing on to their distant relatives in Caerleon.

"What are we supposed to do?" Morgana hissed the second she and Gwen were back in her room. She was gripping the maid's arm, her nails digging into the dress and the skin underneath. "That was  _her_ , Gwen. She's the one who's going to kill him!"

Gwen tried and failed to extricate her arm. "First we have to calm down," she said, not sounding very calm herself. "And we have to keep her away from Arthur if it's the last thing we do."

"Right." Morgana realized that she was hurting her friend. Wincing, she unhanded Gwen. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine."

Morgana clenched her fists until the knuckles whitened and her nails drew blood. "Calm down. Calm down," she murmured, focusing on her breathing. In and out, in and out. She had learned breathing exercises as a way to settle herself after her nightmares, and the practice paid off. It took her less than a minute to regain her composure. Gwen, who didn't have nightmares and therefore lacked the practice, took a bit longer, but soon they were relatively calm and ready for discussion.

"Okay," Morgana muttered, "okay. It's like you said, Gwen. We have to keep her away from Arthur until she and her father go for Caerleon. Ah, when are they going to Caerleon?"

"I don't think they said," Gwen admitted.

Morgana spat a most unladylike curse. "So they could stay as long as they want."

"Unless Uther banished them."

"Why would he banish them?"

"I don't know." Gwen shrugged helplessly. "Or perhaps we could fake a message from their relatives in Caerleon?"

"If there actually are relatives in Caerleon," Morgana growled. "I don't buy their little sob story. Sophia looked very put-together for someone who had to flee for her life."

Gwen nodded. The visitors' bodies and clothing were mostly clean, dusty but unstained. Sophia's dress showed no signs of tearing. Neither did Aulfric's cloak. She was willing to bet that their shoes were hardly even scuffed.

"We need more information on them," Morgana decided. "I'll have to ask my—" She froze.

"What?"

"Their staffs."

"What about their staffs?"

"I knew that they looked familiar, but…." Morgana strode towards the door. "I need a closer look before I know for sure."

Gwen scurried after her. "What about—" she began, but then they passed a laundry maid and she shut her mouth.

Sophia and her father would be sharing a suite right next to Arthur's room. Merlin was helping them settle in when Morgana and Gwen entered. The manservant smiled, raised a hand in greeting to the maid. Gwen smiled back. Then she and Merlin dropped into a shallow curtsey and bow, respectively, in the presence of the new nobility. Morgana couldn't help but be touched. Merlin rarely wasted time on bowing. If he'd bowed to her, it was a gesture of genuine respect.

That, or Arthur had threatened him with the stocks if he wasn't on his best behavior in front of the pretty new girl. It would be just like the dolt to try and impress someone bent on killing him.

"May I help you?" Sophia asked coolly.

Morgana donned her court face. "I merely wanted to introduce myself. I am Morgana le Fay of Caer Tintagel, King Uther's ward."

"Sophia Tir-Mor," the girl replied, "but you already knew that. I saw you at the presentation."

Morgana affected sympathy. "Yes, the presentation. I'm terribly sorry for you. It must have been truly awful, losing your home like that. At least you have your relatives in Caerleon to take you in."

If she hadn't been looking for it, Morgana would not have noticed the flicker of confusion on Sophia's face at the mention of relatives. Then the visitor remembered her supposed destination. "Yes. The thought of rejoining our kin has been such a consolation to Father and me."

"What did you say their names were?" Morgana queried, the perfect picture of innocence. "I grew up near the border. I might know them, or at least of them."

Sophia's knuckles went white on her staff. Her smile became that much more forced. "Sir Roderick of Deira is my father's cousin. He has always been very generous to us, so we're certain he will take us in."

"Of course, of course," Morgana replied. If there was an actual  _Sir Roderick_ anywhere in Deira, then she was the empress of Rome. "I'm not familiar with him. What's he like?"

The girl was beginning to lose her composure. "I haven't seen him since childhood," she sniffed. "We have only kept in touch through letters and gifts, but as I said, he is a good and generous man who will certainly take us in, just as King Uther has graciously agreed to provide for us during our sojourn in Camelot."  _We're the king's guests, milady, and don't you forget it._

"I am very familiar with my guardian's hospitality, Lady Sophia."  _And I'm the king's ward, you little snake. Beat that._

Sophia's eyes narrowed. Her smile vanished momentarily, replaced by a frown, before she forced herself behind a mask of collected coolness.

Tension crackled in the air. The temperature seemed to drop. Morgana half-expected to see frost riming the windows.

Then Aulfric was there, smoother than his daughter by far. "It was a true pleasure to meet you, my Lady Morgana, but I'm afraid that, well…." He spread his hands, grinned apologetically. "The road is hard and long, and my daughter and I are in no fit state to attend the banquet King Uther is holding in our honor tonight. We need to bathe and rest. I'm terribly sorry, my lady, but we cannot in good conscience dishonor the king."

"Of course I'll leave," Morgana said sweetly. "I know better than to overstay my welcome. Perhaps we could talk again at the feast."

Anger flashed in Aulfric's eyes, anger and an alarming shade of red. Morgana's heart pounded. Sorcery?

Gwen chose that moment to contribute. "I can see that Prince Arthur has loaned you his personal manservant, but Merlin can hardly help Lady Sophia bathe and dress. I would be glad to act as Lady Sophia's maidservant until your departure, assuming, of course, that my mistress agrees." She looked at Morgana.

_What are you doing, Gwen?_

Actually, that was a silly question. She wanted an excuse to keep an eye on the little liar, and what better way than by serving as a maid? But that was dangerous. What if Sophia hurt her?

Caught between her desires to protect Gwen and save Arthur, Morgana hesitated too long. Gwen chose to interpret that as acquiescence. She dropped into a shallow curtsey and announced, "I will fetch the bathwater for you, Lady Sophia. Do you have any favorite soaps you would like me to bring?"

Sophia tittered. "That won't be necessary. I'm certain that Lady Morgana needs you much more than I do."

"Oh, no," Gwen said, "Lady Morgana is not the guest of honor at tonight's banquet. We would not wish to dishonor the king by depriving his guest of a servant's hands, and I don't know if we have enough time to find you another maidservant before the feast. I know exactly how long it takes a lady to prepare for these things."

"Which is why you should stay with your mistress," Sophia said. She looked like she'd bitten into something sour. "She will need to prepare as well. If you cannot find a maid for me, surely you cannot find a maid for her."

"With all due respect, my lady, Lady Morgana has more time to commandeer another maid. She has not been on a hard and long road, so she does not need to bathe."

Sophia glanced uncertainly at her stone-faced father, who inclined his head ever so slightly. Scowling, she snapped, "If you insist on serving me, girl, fetch a tub and water."

"The same goes for you, boy," Aulfric snapped at Merlin. Turning to Morgana, he said, "And I'm afraid we must bid you farewell, my lady."

"Of course." Morgana graced him with a dazzling smile. "We can speak again at the banquet."

Aulfric's eye twitched. Morgana internally crowed in triumph. On the outside, though, she remained utterly calm as she glided into the hall.

Merlin and Gwen rounded the corner moments later. "What was that about?" the manservant demanded.

Gwen's dark eyes bored into Morgana's face. The lady frowned, thinking. Merlin was ridiculously loyal to Arthur. He'd drunk poison for the man. There was no way that he would help Sophia. "I can't explain how because it's too long of a story, but Gwen and I have reason to believe that Sophia is plotting against Arthur."

Merlin's eyes went wide. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," Morgana affirmed.

Merlin frowned. "Are you going to tell Arthur?"

Morgana winced. "I can't. The evidence that I have… it's not the kind of thing that Arthur would accept as valid proof. Uther wouldn't believe it either."

"Is that why you agreed to help Sophia?" Merlin asked Gwen. The maid nodded. "Okay. If you're that sure, I'll do my best to keep an eye on Arthur. Do you know how long they're staying?"

Morgana and Gwen exchanged incredulous looks. Was he really just accepting this and going along with it without asking for more evidence?

"Well, no," Gwen eventually confessed. "We were just talking about that, actually. They said that they have relatives in Caerleon they want to visit, that Sir Roderick fellow who probably doesn't exist, but they didn't say when they're leaving. In theory, they could delay their departure for weeks. Months, even, if they procrastinated until the first snowfall, though I doubt they'll be able to do that."

"Probably not," Merlin agreed.

"Perhaps," Gwen suggested, "if Merlin is watching Arthur and I'm tailing Sophia, you can look for more proof."

"Not a bad idea," Morgana acknowledged.

"I could maybe help with that tomorrow," Merlin volunteered. "Arthur's scheduled to go on patrol with Uther and some of the knights. Speaking of knights, do you think we should warn Lancelot?"

Morgana turned to Gwen, who pursed her lips and tilted back her head. "I can tell him tonight," she finally decided. "Ah, if that's all right with you two?"

"Of course," said Morgana. She genuinely liked Lancelot, and poor Gwen deserved happiness with him.

"It's fine with me," Merlin agreed.

"But why are you doing this?" Gwen blurted. "I mean, we haven't really explained anything at all, really, but you're still helping. Why?"

The manservant shrugged. "Because one day I might have to do the same thing with you, Gwen. You're not the only one with mysterious sources. My sheep smuggling ring keeps me very well-informed."

"Your  _what?_ " Morgana demanded.

"It's an inside joke," Gwen explained. "He doesn't really smuggle sheep. Thank you, Merlin. If something like this does happen again—which it probably will, given Arthur's luck—we won't question your knowledge if you don't question ours."

"It's a deal."

By now, they had reached the pumps. Merlin and Gwen began filling their first buckets. Morgana wished them good luck, bid them goodbye, and made a beeline for the library and its elderly keeper, Sir Geoffrey of Monmouth.

Under the pretense of seeing if Sophia and Aulfric had kin in Camelot, Morgana requested permission to browse through Tir-Mor's genealogical records and the records of Caerleon's nobility. Geoffrey must have been feeling rather bored, because he volunteered to help almost immediately, much to the lady's delight. Absence of evidence was certainly not evidence of absence, as the saying went, nor was it proof of ill intent, but perhaps it would be enough to seed doubt in Arthur's thick, stubborn skull.

Perhaps. He did seem rather smitten with her.

…maybe it would be better to present her findings directly to Uther.

Searching genealogies was not the most exciting work, but Morgana's focus meant that the afternoon passed quickly. Soon Gwen was entering the library and softly calling her name. "It's time to get ready for the banquet."

Morgana stood, stretched, and followed her maid to her room. "Did you find anything?" she asked softly.

"I'm afraid not," Gwen sighed. "What about you?"

A grim smile curled Morgana's lips. "No. Geoffrey and I haven't found any mention of Sir Roderick or either of our lovely guests."

"What about their staffs?"

"Their staffs?" It took Morgana a few moments to remember what her friend was talking about. "Their staffs. Right." She looked around the halls. No one was there. Still, she lowered her voice to explain. "I told you that my dream guide has a staff, right? Well, his looks almost exactly like theirs. The only difference is in the crystal. Theirs is blue, his is yellow."

"So they're probably magical too," Gwen concluded.

"That's what I thought. Did you see Aulfric's eyes?"

"No. What about them?"

"I could have sworn that they turned red."

Gwen's brow furrowed. "I thought that sorcerers had yellow eyes? When they're using their magic, that is. Not all the time."

"That's what I'd always heard too," Morgana confessed. "I really have no idea what it means." She pushed open the door to her chambers, made her way to the changing screen. Gwen headed for the closet. An idea struck. "Gwen. Do you remember that red-and-gray dress that Arthur said made me look like a wannabe knight?"

A slow smile spread across Gwen's face. "You haven't worn that for a while."

Morgana smirked. "Of course. I've been waiting for a special occasion."

The garment in question was the red of a knight's cloak, with a gray front meant to suggest a breastplate and gray embroidery along the skirt which was meant to suggest chainmail. Would it hold up in a fight? No. Would it make her intentions very clear to Sophia and Aulfric? Oh, yes.

Sure enough, Sophia's eyes nearly bulged out of her doll-like face when Morgana strode into the hall. She walked like a warrior, not like a lady, toward the high table. Arthur pulled out a chair for her. Morgana smiled. She placed a hand on his shoulder, gave it a tight squeeze, and looked Sophia dead in the eye. Her own eyes narrowed as she tightened her grip.

Sophia's nostrils flared. Her lips thinned. Her eyes flashed, turning the same color of Morgana's gown.

So she hadn't been imagining it then. Who and  _what_ ever Sophia and Aulfric were, they had some sort of connection to magic. No surprises there. Most people who wanted Uther and/or Arthur dead were magical (or had something to do with King Odin, but she'd ruled the possibility out almost immediately. Odin was hardly the sort to use a teenage girl as his assassin).

Not a surprise, but it made them ten times more dangerous.

As promised, Morgana turned her attention to Aulfric as soon as she sat down. Aulfric had noted her display just as his daughter had, and he was just as pleased as she was. The red was still fading from his eyes when she met them with her own steely gaze.

"I'm glad it's dinnertime," Morgana told him, still smiling that same sweet smile. "I was so enjoying our conversation this afternoon."

Sophia's eye gave a little twitch.

Aulfric laid a hand on his daughter's shoulder. Courtesy forced him to lie. "As was I, my lady. I wish that we had some of Sir Roderick's letters with us, but alas, they were all burned."

"Yes," Morgana said, "I quite understand how inconvenient it can be to travel without the necessary papers. Speaking of papers, am I to assume that your certificates of nobility were also lost?"

"Of course," Aulfric said, some of his annoyance leaking through. "We are no brigands in nobles' clothing, my lady."

Behind Morgana, Gwen sucked in a quick breath.

Oh, she could use this. "I didn't mean to imply any such thing," Morgana assured Aulfric. "I just meant to offer aid." Having bloodied the prey, she moved in for the kill. "Our court historian, Geoffrey of Monmouth, is more than capable of creating new certificates for you. Of course," she continued blandly, "he would have to be able to find your seals and pedigrees in his books."

Sophia's fingers tightened around her wineglass.

Aulfric was trapped. He knew it, too. "You are too kind, my lady," he said, "and I mean that literally. We have already imposed on your and your guardian's wonderful hospitality too much. Ours is an obscure branch of the family tree, and it would doubtless take your court historian many hours to find enough evidence. The same goes for Sir Roderick," he added before she could mention him.

"Geoffrey is very capable, Lord Aulfric."

"Yes," Uther agreed, entering the conversation for the first time since Morgana's arrival. "He is quite capable, and his aides are skilled as well." The tiniest frown marred his brow. Apparently Aulfric's protests were making him suspicious.

Aulfric's eyes widened ever so slightly with fear. "I believe you. It is just that Tir-Mor is far from Camelot, and I fear he might lack the records. Even the most skilled blacksmith alive cannot smelt without iron."

"I think that you underestimate the size of our library," Morgana said.

A drop of sweat beaded at the tip of Aulfric's nose.

Morgana would gladly have pursued that line of conversation, deepening Uther's suspicions and scaring the newcomers so badly that they did something stupid, but the kitchen servants chose that moment to arrive with the first course. Conversation lulled as the dishes were served. When it started up again, it was firmly under Sophia's control. The doll-faced girl spent more time praising the food than eating, only stopping to take a quick bite when Morgana's mouth was full or when Aulfric had something to say.

They made their escape rather hastily after supper, citing exhaustion from the hardships of the road and stomachs too full for comfort. Fortunately for Morgana, Merlin and Gwen were there, ready to take care of the lord and lady in whatever way they desired (and in several ways they did not).

Still, there were ways to sabotage Aulfric and Sophia without their presence. In a voice just a bit louder than necessary, she announced that she was going to see Geoffrey about making replacement certificates of nobility for their poor bereft guests. She did just that before returning to her room, where she paced and thought and fretted until Gwen's return.

"Sophia is reading in bed," the maid reported. "I stayed as long as I could, but then she outright ordered me to leave. I could try to spy on her if you'd like."

"No. It was daylight in my dream. And thank you, Gwen, you've done brilliantly."

"Thank you. You were completely brilliant as well." She smiled. It wasn't her usual sweet smile but something more mischievous, almost devilish. "But I have an idea that I think you'll like."

"What is it?"

That uncharacteristically devilish grin widened. "It was something Aulfric said. You recall he mentioned that they weren't brigands in nobles' clothing? Well, what if they  _were_?" She walked over to Morgana's jewel box. "What if we were to discover that Lady Sophia had stolen, say, your ruby earrings and the matching necklace?"

By now, Morgana was grinning as well. "And wouldn't it be a shame if the jewels ended up in her room?"

"An awful shame," Gwen agreed. "Sophia and Aulfric would be banished."

Morgana's grin transformed into a smirk. "You know what, Gwen? I think I'd like to wear my rubies tomorrow."

Gwen picked up the jewels in question. "I'm afraid they're missing, my lady, and I need to go see if Lady Sophia requires an extra blanket." She grabbed a spare from Morgana's closet and wrapped the rubies up. "You know how chilly this old castle can get."

"Give her my regards, Gwen."

"Don't worry, my lady." Gwen checked to make sure that the rubies were hidden. "I will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because we all know that Gwen is secretly a devious plotter, which I guess makes it less of a secret. Oh well. We won't tell anyone, right, guys?
> 
> The inside joke between Merlin and Gwen is a reference to chapter 6, Gwen's first POV.
> 
> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Sneaky Gwen Demonstrates her Sneakiness by Sneakily Sneaking Around Watching Sophia, Who Isn't as Sneaky as she Thinks she is."


	12. Þæt Feorþ Wæðende

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin spies on the Tir-Mors and discovers that they are indeed a threat. Shocking.

Chapter 12: Þæt Feorþ Wæðende

Kilgharrah's old cave was dark and dank and rather smelly. The stones were hard and cold beneath his body, and the shadows around him seemed to swallow up the meager light of his torch. But no one ever came here. No one would catch him.

Merlin had compiled a mental list of spells to cast. Kilgharrah had warned him about the consequences of making an error in this process. He said it was a true miracle that Merlin had somehow managed to do it unconscious, poisoned, and without a whit of training.  _Proof of your power,_  the dragon had said,  _and proof of your skill._

Well, Merlin wasn't feeling particularly powerful or skilled right then. He rather wished that he had opted for good old-fashioned footwork. But he'd seen Aulfric's eyes flash red at the feast, his eyes and his daughter's too, and he had no desire to be caught and recognized. So long as he heeded Kilgharrah's warnings, this was a great deal safer than following in person.

Still, he couldn't help but feel nervous. He'd only soul-walked on a couple of short journeys, and then he'd had Kilgharrah to guide him and save him if something went wrong. Nothing had gone wrong yet and Merlin realized that, statistically, this trip would probably go off without a hitch as well, but the dragon's presence had been very reassuring.

But he knew the spells, the rituals, the dangers, and he knew the potential reward of following 'Lord' Aulfric. So with that in mind, he spread a circle of ash seven and a half feet in diameter. That was more than enough room to hold his prone body. As he spread the ash, he chanted the spell.

" _Séo sáwol bógaþ wiðinnan þone bánsele, ond into þæm bánsele mín sáwol edhwierfaþ."_

The circle fizzled. Merlin caught a whiff of smoke, faint and fleeting. The scent made him smile. It was a sign that this part had been completed successfully, that his soul had a beacon fire to guide it home.

Next he traced runes of warning outside the circle. He could probably have skipped this step—no danger was likely to come to his body while his soul wandered, not when the fear of being immolated kept people away from Kilgharrah's old cave—but he didn't like leaving his body behind, abandoned and undefended, with Sophia and Aulfric in the castle. If anyone came within a hundred feet of his body, Merlin would know.

" _Ásende wærword hwonne hwa. Cáf wærword, cúðlic wærword, sóþ wærword."_

The third step was possibly the most important. He meant to spy on people with magic, and Kilgharrah had warned that some sorcerers could sense the presence of disembodied souls. This spell would camouflage him, keep him safe from Aulfric's unnatural red eyes. Well, he hoped it would.

" _Ic beslépe þæt rift þrosmes ond sceadu."_

His preparations were complete. Now only the final spell remained, the incantation that would allow him to soul-walk, to spy on Aulfric and Sophia without being seen.

Merlin laid himself down, taking care not to damage any of his ashes. Once he was positioned, he put the torch by his side and extinguished it with a word. Darkness closed in on him, huge and pressing.

" _Fulfielde wrásene betwyx bánsele ond sáwol. Se elþéodende feorþ wæðan."_

Leaving his body felt a bit like floating. He rose up through the darkness, passing through the stone ceiling as easily as a fish swam through water. Once back in the castle proper, it was easy for him to find Aulfric's temporary chambers. He'd lived in the castle for months now, and anyways, Arthur had ensured that Sophia and her father were quartered near him.

Merlin was nearly there when a cloaked shadow caught his eye. He backed instinctively into the shadows, but Aulfric didn't notice him. It seemed that red eyes were no better than blue at seeing spirits.

Aulfric slipped past the guards easily, which was of course no surprise. Lancelot wasn't on duty yet—though once he was he would probably guard Arthur. Gwen was sure to warn him—and he was pretty much the only competent guardsman in Camelot. Merlin made a mental note to check in with the man once he'd gotten his body back. For now, he had other things to do.

He followed the visitor through the streets of the lower town, past the walls, and into the forest. Merlin was glad that he'd chosen to sneak around without a body. If he'd come physically, he would have betrayed himself a thousand times by now, tripping over hidden roots and stepping on sticks and maybe even walking into a tree or two. The moon and stars were veiled by clouds, and even if they had been visible, the moon was only a thin crescent anyways.

But light and darkness made no difference to a spirit. He could feel the slow, steady life of the trees around him, sense the quiet slumber of daytime creatures and the activity of bats and owls. He could feel Aulfric's life, too, a life that felt strangely muffled but nonetheless shimmered like sunshine on water. The man's stave had another sort of glow. It was not alive, but the wood remembered being a tree, and the crystal and runes burned with magic. Merlin remembered how it had felt in his hands, the jolt of rightness it had sent through him. He would have been able to follow the stave even if the man hadn't summoned a ball of fire to light his way.

Merlin found the fire reassuring. It meant that Aulfric didn't know he was there. If he'd known, he would never have revealed himself as a sorcerer, not within a few miles of where Uther slept, especially not when his daughter remained in the king's own keep.

The spirit followed the sorcerer across mounds and dips, over tiny brooks and slightly larger streams, past oak and pine. Finally they arrived at the shores of a lake, where Aulfric stopped and stood.

It was by far the most beautiful body of water Merlin had ever seen. The water rippled in the moonlight like molten silver, interrupted only by a half-seen island in the distance. Trees ringed its shores, their leaves filling the night with soft rustling. In the distance, Merlin could make out the shadows of mountains blotting out the stars.

There was no way the beauty was natural. Merlin would have known that even in his body, even if he could not see the magic blazing across the surface of the waters. For blaze it did, brighter than the moon and stars combined, brighter than the sun itself. It blazed with the same sort of magic that he'd seen in Aulfric's staff, in Aulfric and Sophia themselves.

Aulfric spread his arms in the gesture of one beseeching his liege. "I seek an audience with the Sidhe elders.  _Do tiag-sa ar idbairt do denam_!"

The lake flared, magic pouring out of it with such force that Merlin's spirit was nearly pushed right back into his body. For a moment he could feel the cold, hard stone beneath him, the leadenness of his limbs, but then he grit his metaphorical teeth and lunged back towards the lake. The effort left him dizzy, but he was back.

The Sidhe, the Sidhe. What did he know about the Sidhe? The term sounded vaguely familiar. Merlin scoured his brain for any information but came up blank. Lake spirits, maybe? Because a lake like this was magical enough to have spirits.

Some of the magic radiating off the lake condensed. Merlin backed into a tree, hiding himself behind layers of bark and heartwood. Would his spells of concealment work on lake spirits?

The Sidhe took form. They were tiny creatures, not much taller than the length of Merlin's head. Their skins were blue as water, blue as the sky, and gossamer wings sprouted from their shoulders. The wings moved like those of bees, almost too fast for the human eye to follow. Merlin was too far away to make out their features, but he imagined them to be sharp and pointed and maybe a little bit cruel.

The warlock curled up even tighter, trying to make his spirit as small as possible. The tree around him felt like a flimsy shield indeed.

"Aulfric." The Sidhe might have been small, but this one's voice was deep and booming. It carried easily across the water. "What seek you?"

"I seek an opportunity to regain the immortality you stripped from me and from my daughter."

Had Merlin's spirit possessed eyebrows, he would have raised them. Immortality? And here he'd thought that they were there to kill Arthur.  _Everyone_ was there to kill Arthur. The immortality thing was a pleasant change.

The Sidhe elder (lord? King? Something important) laughed. It was a cruel laugh, cold and mocking. "You cannot. The price of killing another Sidhe is a mortal lifespan. You may never return to the shores of Avalon."

"I am a kinslayer, yes," Aulfric cried, "but my daughter is innocent! Will you not at least grant her the opportunity to regain what you stripped from her?"

"You know the price," the Sidhe said. His voice was completely indifferent. "Pay it, and perhaps we shall open the gates of Avalon for her. Otherwise begone."

A price? Merlin stiffened. He had a bad feeling about that.

"We will pay it, and gladly," Aulfric proclaimed. "On the morrow, we shall bring you a mortal prince, Arthur son of Uther Pendragon. His death will open the gates."

Oh. So much for not being there to kill Arthur. He really should have known better than to hope otherwise.

The Sidhe fluttered about, but the elder remained in place. "So be it," he proclaimed. "Give us this mortal prince, and we shall grant your daughter her lost immortality. You, however, will remain in this realm until the breath leaves your body." He paused, perhaps to smile a vicious, sharp-toothed smiled. "But worry not, traitor. Mortal lives are short. You will not suffer too long."

Aulfric bowed his head. "Thank you. Let it be as you have said."

"It will be," the Sidhe declared. He and his comrades flew back into the lake.

Merlin followed Aulfric a bit longer, but it soon became obvious that he was simply returning to the castle. The warlock picked up his pace. Within moments, his spirit was within the great keep. His initial thought was just to return to his body and get some actual sleep, but then he decided to go check up on Arthur. The prince would probably be safe until tomorrow (unless there was another supernatural assassin in the palace, which honestly wouldn't surprise him) when Sophia was ready for the sacrifice, but it couldn't hurt just to make sure that he wasn't doing anything too stupid. Besides, his rooms were near Sophia's quarters, and he should probably make sure that she wasn't wandering the castle as well. She probably wasn't, but—

Oh, wait. She was.

Sophia was just slipping out the door when Merlin arrived. The Sidhe glanced around, froze. For a moment Merlin feared that she had noticed him. Then a very familiar voice asked, "May I help you, my lady?"

Lancelot stood in front of Arthur's door. One hand rested casually on the hilt of his sword. His smile was easy and relaxed, but his eyes were hard.

Merlin was torn between staying to watch the confrontation and scurrying back to his body. If he got a physical form, he could come sprinting back here and maybe help. But Lancelot was a good fighter, swift and strong, and Sophia might choose to do nothing for fear of arousing suspicion. Unable to decide, he remained there, watching the confrontation between Sidhe and guardian.

"No, you may not," Sophia growled. There was a definite hint of red in her eyes. "Might I ask what you are doing here?"

"Of course. I am a guardsman. It is my duty and honor to watch over the royal household and the castle proper." He smiled cheerfully. "Tonight I am guarding Prince Arthur's door."

"I am certain that he sleeps much better, knowing that his valiant guardsmen are so diligent in their duties."

"I would hope so."

Sophia glided back into her room. For a moment Merlin thought it was over. He relaxed, even allowed himself a tiny smile.

Then Sophia came back out, staff in hand.

Lancelot drew his sword, crouched to spring forward, but Sophia spat a word in a language Merlin didn't know and pointed the staff's crystal at him. Blue light arced from the gem. Lancelot rolled to the side. His mouth was open; he was sucking in a breath to yell for help when the second beam hit him in the chest.

Merlin tried to cast his magic, tried to help, but whatever had let him defeat the spiders was missing. He hadn't learned how to consciously use magic without his body. But he had to try, so he focused as hard as he could on casting a shield.

The beam burst, exploding over Lancelot's body like blue lightning over a golden lake. He went flying backwards, colliding with the wall with an audible thud.

He did not get up.

_No._

Sophia, smirking, lowered her staff. She strode over to Lancelot's prone form and kicked him in the side. The would-be knight didn't react. He just flopped limply on the floor, propelled forwards a couple inches by Sophia's surprisingly strong assault.

No no no no no. There was no way that Lancelot was dead. He had to be alive. He had to be! Panicking, Merlin approached his friend's still form. Was he breathing? Did his heart beat?

Yes, he was breathing, and yes, his heart still beat. The life force that was only visible to disembodied beings still pulsed around him. The light was weak, the breathing shallow, and the heartbeat erratic, but Lancelot was alive.

Sophia breathed a spell. Lancelot's body floated up until it was as high as her waist. The Sidhe opened the door to her room and levitated Lancelot inside.

Merlin had seen enough. Just because Lancelot was alive now didn't mean she couldn't kill him, and he was helpless without his body. Without another thought, Merlin threw himself back into his physical form.

The boy jerked up with a gasp. His head spun and he felt vaguely nauseated, but he didn't have time to deal with that because he had to get to Lancelot. Except when he pushed himself to his feet, his vision blurred so badly that he collapsed again, stomach clenching. He retched, retched again. Nothing came up, fortunately, but the delay made him even more frantic. Who knew what Sophia might be doing to Lancelot?

As he pushed himself once more to his feet (and stayed there this time), Merlin grouchily reflected that this was probably why Kilgharrah always had him reenter his body slowly. He would have to keep that in mind for next time—unless, of course, another of his friends was in danger. Then he'd take his chances with nausea and dizziness.

Merlin rushed up the stairs. Once he reached the castle proper, he had to slow down, pad more quietly, and stick to the shadows. Lancelot had spread the rumor that Merlin suffered from insomnia and often needed midnight strolls if he wanted to sleep, but the warlock would rather not explain what he'd been doing in a restricted area to any competent guardsmen. It wasn't likely he'd be caught, and he knew that—but all it took was one dumb guard getting lucky, and then he'd have a lot of fast talking to do.

As he made his way through the shadows, Merlin tried to plan his course of action against Sophia. She would be alone, he guessed; Aulfric still had a ways to go before he reached the keep. He'd still have to take her by surprise, though. Who knew what kind of magic an exiled Sidhe had at her disposal? And he'd have to stay away from that staff of hers.

There weren't any other guards in Arthur's hall, which Merlin had always found spectacularly stupid. One would  _think_  that protecting the king's only son and heir took precedence over some empty old vaults! But  _no,_  they had to make sure the dust bunnies in those empty old vaults didn't suddenly sprout fangs and attack the castle from below.

Sullivan needed to get his priorities straight.

Sophia's door was closed. Despite his urgency, Merlin paused long enough to press his ear against the door. Silence. Hopefully that meant that Sophia had gone back to sleep and not that she had to dispose of the body.

Merlin pushed open the door. " _Forbaerne,_ " he spat. A fireball blossomed above his left palm, throwing lurid light all over the room. " _Astri—"_  He paused, frowned. Lancelot was lying on the floor, still floppy and unconscious, but Sophia was nowhere to be found. Befuddled, Merlin channeled more energy into his fireball. The light brightened, but it still didn't illuminate Sophia. She wasn't in the room.

That was extremely odd, but Merlin decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. He rushed over to Lancelot, dropping to his knees when he reached the other man's side. One pale hand reached for the guard's pulse point. The other hovered in front of his mouth, feeling for air as it left Lancelot's mouth.

Breath ghosted across Merlin's hand, faint but still present.

A wide smile threatened to split the warlock's face. Alive, Lancelot was alive. He just had to get his friend to Gaius and then they could figure out what to do.

Except that was when the door opened.

Merlin jumped, whirling around. His fireball spluttered. Panic fluttered in his chest at the knowledge that someone had seen him using magic. Then he realized that it was only Sophia, who would have probably learned about his magic anyways as he attempted to (and hopefully succeeded) save Arthur from her attempt on his life. For a few moments, the manservant was actually relieved.

Then he remembered that Sophia was an enemy, she was dangerous, and—yes—she was indeed leveling her staff at him. Blue light gathered on its crystal.

Merlin crouched, muscles bunching, as he instinctively prepared to dodge. Except Lancelot was behind him, and what would happen if the blue beam hit him? Could his friend survive another blast?

Hesitation slowed him. By the time Sophia loosed her attack, it was too late even to throw up a quick shield.

Blue lightning crackled around Merlin's body, spreading pain wherever it touched. He thought he cried out, but he couldn't hear anything. His senses were gone, sight and smell as well as hearing. Only touch—only pain—remained.

His body slammed against something hard and solid. The wall, probably. His head snapped back, colliding with the stone.

Blackness.

When he woke up, it was to Gwen's frantic shaking. Merlin tried to sit but banged his head against… Sophia's bedframe? What was that about?

Blinking blearily, the warlock tried to regain his bearings. Gaius was there, leaning over Lancelot with a worried expression. Morgana was there as well, directing a trio of guardsmen to look through the room.

"Merlin!" Gwen exclaimed, wrapping him in a hug.

"Hi," Merlin said, scooting away from the bed. "What's going—oh. Oh!"

It all came back in a flash: following Aulfric, the Sidhe at the lake, Sophia attacking Lancelot, Sophia attacking him, and, of course, the sadly unsurprising attempt on Arthur's life.

Merlin scrambled to his feet. "They're after Arthur," he blurted. "Where is he?"

"Missing," Gwen said. Her dark eyes were huge with fear. "That's why we came here—well, it's one of the reasons. There was another, but this one is a bit—a lot—more pressing than—Merlin? Merlin, where are you going?" For Merlin, having a very good idea of where the Sidhe had brought Arthur, was sprinting out the door.

He just hoped that he wasn't too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title: The Wandering Spirit
> 
> First spell: "The soul dwells within the body, and to its dwelling my soul shall return."
> 
> Second spell: "Send warning when anyone comes. Swift warning, sure warning, true warning."
> 
> Third spell: "I don the cloak of smoke and shadows."
> 
> Fourth spell: "Loosen the tethers twixt body and soul. The living spirit wanders."
> 
> Aulfric's spell (taken from the wiki, as it's what he said in the episode): "I come to make you an offering!"
> 
> I made up Merlin's wandering spells and used the translator at oldenglish translator. co. uk (just take out the spaces). If you recall, Kilgharrah was teaching Merlin to do this after the spiders thing. Yay for continuity!
> 
> Of course I didn't kill Lancelot. He has a lot of legend left.
> 
> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Sir Lancelot and the Mighty Emrys are Beaten Up by a Slip of a Girl Roughly Two-thirds Their Weight"


	13. Opening the Gates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgana's vision comes true.

Chapter XIII: Opening the Gates

Gwen tried to follow him. She called out his name, shouted that there were already search parties on the hunt for the missing prince, but Merlin ignored her. Soon she had fallen behind. No surprises there—Lancelot was still unconscious, and anyways, skirts weren't meant for running in.

Even though there were search parties, Merlin dared not wait for Arthur to be found. The exiled Sidhe were dangerous. Unless the searchers were very sneaky archers, which he doubted, they would fall to the blue-topped staves before they came close enough to use their swords.

And that was assuming that the search parties even managed to find him. He had no doubt that Sophia or Aulfric (or both) had used magic to cover their tracks. They might know spells to thwart the hounds, glamors to cover foliage disturbed by their passing, a hundred little cantrips that would hinder pursuit until it was too late.

It might already be too late, but Merlin was trying not to think about that.

He didn't need hounds or tracking skills or a keen eye. He knew where they must be taking Arthur. Where would they bring him but the Lake of Avalon? The mortal prince's death would open the gates, and Sophia could go home to her immortality and her kin. He didn't know what would happen to Aulfric (nor, to be honest, did he particularly care), but he couldn't let Sophia leave, for then his friend and future king would be dead.

So he ran, shoving aside random passersby on the streets and ignoring their exclamations of anger. He only slowed when he reached the city walls, and that was because the guards were doing their job for once. They'd formed a small blockade at the gate and were checking everyone to make sure that they weren't Arthur or one of the Sidhe in disguise.

Most of Merlin chafed at the delay, but the smaller, more reasonable part of his mind pointed out that he needed the reprieve. He was short of breath from his sprint and needed a few minutes to recover. Besides, he could plan as he waited. Except he really couldn't, because he knew too little about what was happening. The only thing he could think of was to rush to the lake and try to take them by surprise.

The guards waved Merlin through without a second glance. He was known to them, and even if he hadn't been a familiar face, he didn't look a thing like Aulfric or Sophia, wasn't smuggling a young blond man out of the citadel. They had no cause to keep him.

He jogged through the forest, occasionally stumbling over a root or rise but generally retaining a steady pace. He couldn't move too fast or too slow, especially when he was still a bit winded from his mad dash through the streets, but he thought he was making good time.

How long had it taken Aulfric to get to the lake? About forty minutes of brisk walking, he thought, maybe a bit less. So, assuming that he managed not to trip every three steps, it should take him maybe twenty-five minutes to get there. Possibly—okay, probably—a bit more, what with his luck and all.

Those twenty-five minutes stretched out into centuries. Running was hardly a complex intellectual task, and the monotony of one foot in front of another left Merlin's mind free to wander. In other words, he couldn't stop himself from coming up with all sorts of dreadful scenarios, each more unlikely than the last but still, he felt, possible. If the Sidhe really did want a mortal prince so badly, they might just send that army that he was imagining.

Fortunately, the waiting army of Sidhe (and all their pointy swords and nasty spells) was just a figment of Merlin's imagination. Not-so-fortunately, Arthur wasn't there.

Sophia and Aulfric were. The girl was submerged to her waist; her father stood on dry land, arms raised and a spell on his lips.

Merlin put on a burst of speed, his exhaustion washed away by a rush of panic. No, they couldn't have killed him already. They couldn't have.  _"Astrice!_ " he roared, thrusting out his hands.

Aulfric went flying, limbs flailing as he tried to land on his feet. Sophia screamed, but Merlin silenced her with another blast of magic. She was thrown deeper into the lake. Her scream died in a splash.

The other Sidhe slammed into a tree with such force that the wood cracked. Merlin thought he heard bones snap as well, but he was past caring. The warlock dropped to his knees, grabbed the dazed, wounded man by his collar. "Where is he?" Merlin snarled. "Where's Arthur?"

Aulfric's eyes flickered toward the lake, though his mouth remained defiantly shut.

That was good enough to Merlin. It made sense, too, he thought—what better way to open the gates of Avalon than by drowning the sacrifice in this lake? He didn't know if he should be glad or not. After all, drowning was a relatively slow way to go. Maybe there was still a chance.

Now all Merlin had to do was find him.

Ignoring the cold, he half-jogged, half-swam to the spot where he'd seen Sophia. She would want to be near Arthur, right? Maybe she'd been holding him down.

Merlin sucked in a deep breath and dove.

The water was clear at first but quickly darkened into impenetrable murk. Merlin's hands scrambled about, searching by touch alone, while he squinted for any glint of armor or red fabric in the gloom. Nothing.

His lungs burned. He surfaced long enough to gulp a great lungful of air, then plunged back down.

This time, his hand touched something soft and mobile. He clutched at it, pulled. It was attached to a great weight, one which, a few more pats revealed, was shaped like a man. Even in the dim gloom of the water, Merlin thought he could make out a hint of red.

Then something hit him, a weight pushing him down. Golden skirts blocked the hint of red from his vision. Sophia kicked at him. Her blows were slowed by the water, but they still hurt. Worse, when Merlin tried to resurface, she pushed him back down.

His lungs began to burn. He didn't have enough air for a spell.

Sophia kicked again, but this time, Merlin was ready for her. He grabbed her leg, yanked. The Sidhe lost her balance, tipping to the side. Merlin surfaced, gasped in a huge gulp of air. " _Scildan,_ " he choked, conjuring a gold-tinged shield between himself and the Sidhe girl.

The warlock's lungs still burned, but he forced himself to hold his breath and dive once more. This time, he managed to grab Arthur, haul the prince to the surface.

Sophia was still pounding her fists against the shield, which had pushed her several feet away from Merlin and Arthur. She stopped when she saw that the warlock had pulled the prince to the surface, eyes going wide with shock.

"Sophia, go!"

Aulfric's cry distracted both his daughter and their enemy. They turned towards the broken, bleeding man, who was still too weak to regain his feet. Blood leaked from his nose and dribbled from his mouth. "Go, Sophia. I love you."

The girl looked at her father, then at Merlin. No, she wasn't looking at Merlin. She was looking at something behind him. A thousand emotions waged war on her smooth, pretty face.

Merlin looked over his shoulder. He couldn't stop a soft cry of horror.

There was a tear in the air above the lake's center. It was long but thin and seemed to glow. And it was getting wider even as Merlin watched.

The gates of Avalon were opening.

Merlin's blood froze. No. There was no way that Arthur was dead. Just no way.

The crack widened. Soon it would be big enough for a person to walk through.

"Run, Sophia!" Aulfric cried. Somehow, he forced himself to his feet, though he still had to lean heavily on his staff. "I'll hold the boy at bay. Run!"

Sophia choked on a sob. "I love you, Father," she cried, and ran.

Aulfric aimed his stave at Merlin. Without its support, he wobbled, almost fell. But weak as he was, he had enough strength to spit out a spell. A beam of blue light burst from the staff's gem.

Merlin wheeled his shield around. It bent under the force of Aulfric's attack but did not shatter. The Sidhe didn't seem to care. He simply fired another blast.

Arthur was a cold, motionless weight against Merlin's side. His entire body was limp. Though his head was resting on Merlin's shoulder, mostly to help keep him upright, the warlock couldn't feel his breath.

He had to find some way to save him.

Merlin hunkered down inside his shield. He fed a bit more energy to the golden dome, thickening it, and turned his attention to his friend and prince. No, he wasn't breathing, and when Merlin pressed a finger to his throat, he couldn't find a pulse.

"You're too late, boy," Aulfric snapped. He was leaning against a tree, exhausted from his continual assaults on Merlin's shield. "He's dead."

Something within Merlin  _snapped_. "No," he snarled, suddenly knowing what to do, " _you_ are."

And he  _pulled._

The warlock didn't know what he was doing. All he did, he did through instinct. He'd always been able to use magic without thought, moving things with his mind before he could walk or talk. He could slow time itself without words. But this was more complicated than even that. It was balance and power and healing and killing, and as he guided his magic through the new channels of his instinct, he felt like he was someone more than Merlin, someone a thousand times stronger and infinitely greater.

Aulfric crumbled. There was really no other way to describe how his flesh dissolved into motes of dust that floated away on the breeze. The staff fell to the ground.

Arthur's eyelids twitched.

Sophia screamed.

Merlin paid no attention to the Sidhe. He wrapped his arms around Arthur's torso. He pulled them in as quickly and tightly as he could. Water spouted from Arthur's mouth, flowing down his chin to drip into the lake. Merlin loosened his grip, then pulled again. Arthur vomited up more water. He coughed.

"No, no, no!" Sophia cried, splashing through the lake. "No!"

Arthur was still coughing, his entire body tensing in Merlin's arms. He was still spitting up a remarkable amount of clear liquid. Merlin hadn't thought that so much water could fit into a person's lungs, but the still-unconscious prince wasn't showing any signs of slowing down.

Relief made the warlock laugh. Then a cry from Sophia reminded him that they were still in danger.

The warlock spun around, a spell on his lips, but Sophia wasn't attacking. Instead, she was racing towards the rapidly narrowing gateway. She was five paces away—four—three—two—

The Sidhe jumped, twisting her body sideways in a desperate attempt to fit. But the portal was closing too rapidly.

The gates of Avalon slammed shut, trapping Sophia Tir-Mor between them. She didn't even get a chance to scream before she just vanished. Not even dust remained.

Merlin shuddered.

Arthur's coughs were beginning to slow. Less water poured from his mouth. Now he was sucking in great gulps of air, his chest and belly heaving.

A wave of exhaustion threatened to overwhelm Merlin. The manservant staggered, nearly dropped his charge. He felt weak as a newborn babe and wanted nothing so much as to curl up on his cot in Ealdor and sleep for a week. But the middle of a lake is not a good place to fall asleep, especially without a boat, so he somehow dragged himself and Arthur to the shore.

When he woke, the sun had set and moonlight dappled the water. Arthur was still beside him, his chest rising and falling, his hair plastered to his head. Good. Merlin really didn't want to have to explain to his prince why they were unconscious by the side of some random lake. On the other hand, it probably wasn't good that Arthur was still out cold. Drowning victims were supposed to wake up rather quickly, weren't they? He'd have to ask Gaius. Still, Arthur didn't seem to have a fever, and his breathing and pulse were both regular. He didn't seem to be in immediate danger, but Merlin should probably get him to Gaius. Perhaps he could levitate the older boy until they reached the walls of Camelot?

Arthur stirred. Or at least Merlin thought he was stirring. It was hard to tell with so little light.

The warlock paused. A plan was beginning to form in his mind. As the plot crystalized, a smile spread across the plotter's face.

Merlin was still a bit unsteady on his feet. He supposed he was exhausted magically from whatever he'd done to kill Aulfric, the same thing that had cured Arthur (for he knew in his bones that the former's death and the latter's life were connected), and that had side effects on his body. He just hoped he had enough magic left for his idea.

That, or he was just lightheaded from not having eaten all day.

But whether he was dizzy from magic or dizzy from an empty belly, the point remained that he was uncomfortably wobbly and could probably do with a walking stick. With that in mind, he staggered over to Aulfric's fallen staff. Just touching it made him feel a bit better. He could feel the magic pulsing within it, magic that harmonized well with his own. Perhaps he didn't need to worry about having enough strength for his plan.

Arthur shifted. Merlin wobbled over into the underbrush, where he sat in the shadows and waited.

Sure enough, Arthur stood. He looked just as wobbly as Merlin felt and had to grab onto a tree branch to steady himself. Dazed and confused but awake and alive, the prince surveyed his surroundings as well as he could in the dim light of a crescent moon.

Merlin breathed a spell.

A floating globe of light coalesced in front of Arthur, a misty orb shot through with blue and gold. Arthur jumped almost out of his skin. Merlin grinned.

The prince stared long and hard at the light. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out a hand to touch it. Gold flared where his palm pressed against the globe.

"Is someone there?" the prince called. When no one answered, he increased his voice. "Is anyone out there?"

Merlin willed the light to bob in front of him. It nudged the prince's arm like a friendly dog. The prince stared at it. The light pulsed once before drifting in the direction of Camelot.

"Who sent you?" Arthur asked softly.

The light pulsed again.  _Come on, Arthur!_

"Who sent you?" Arthur repeated, walking towards the light. "Is he here?"

The light didn't respond, of course. Neither did Merlin. The manservant was still waiting to see what would happen. Would Arthur keep following? Did he trust the light even though it was sorcerous, or would he try to make his own way back?

Arthur seemed to be wondering the same thing. His expression was one of uncertainty.

The moment stretched on and on. Then the prince gave a little half-shrug, squared his shoulders, and said, "Lead on, then."

Merlin's grin nearly split his face.

Arthur followed the light. Merlin followed Arthur, slipping from tree to tree and not making too much noise. What little sound he did make, Arthur didn't attribute to a human. Plenty of creatures wandered the forest at night, most of them much larger than the moths that fluttered around the blue-tinted light.

Arthur would sometimes try to talk to the light. He would ask it who had sent it, where the sender was, why it had been sent. For the most part, though, he remained silent.

Finally (it felt like significantly longer than Aulfric's forty minutes), Merlin and Arthur could make out the glow of Camelot, lanterns and torches and probably a few candles. Arthur quickened his pace.

Merlin waited another couple of minutes, then let his light go out. Arthur jumped at the sudden darkness. He looked around, turning in no fewer than three full circles before coming into a halt.

Why wasn't he moving? Arthur could be rather dim at times, Merlin knew, but Camelot was  _right there._  Perhaps almost drowning had done something to his vision? No, that couldn't be it—he'd followed the light successfully enough, even managing to navigate obstacles like roots and branches and a badger hole (the resident of which had thankfully not made an appearance. By the end of the walk, Merlin was having trouble keeping his light from going out. It would be just embarrassing if he survived releasing a dragon, fighting a water monster in the middle of a plague, drinking poison, and everything else he'd done just to be mauled to death by a badger). Arthur's eyes were just fine.

Perhaps he didn't recognize the skyline? No, that was absurd. Merlin could easily recognize Camelot's spires and towers and walls, and he'd only lived there for a season. Arthur had grown up there. He knew the city and the woods around it like the back of his hand. He'd probably gotten his bearings quite a while ago and only stuck with the light for its illumination, not its guidance.

So what in the world was he waiting for? All he had to do was walk up to the gate. The guards would recognize their prince, would let him in right away. They would bring him to Uther, who would send for Gaius and listen to Arthur's tale as the physician examined him. Arthur would tell what he knew and Uther would rave about the evils of magic almost stealing his son and Gaius would probably ask if Arthur had seen any sign of Merlin, which would prompt a complaint about useless servants. Lancelot would probably be awake by now, and perhaps he and Arthur would exchange a few words before Gaius and Uther bundled the prince off to bed. Then Arthur would fall asleep on his mattress full of down. When he woke up in the morning and demanded an even-larger-than-usual breakfast (which he would do even if Uther remembered to feed him this night), everything would be back to normal.

Arthur looked at Camelot, then back at the place where the light had been. He did this three, four, five more times. Merlin wished that it wasn't too dark to read the prince's expression. Maybe he was hurt and just barely holding himself upright. That was pretty much the only explanation Merlin could think of as to why he wasn't moving.

If Arthur was still tired from his near-drowning experience, Merlin should probably find some way to help him. He had just started going through ideas when Arthur's voice cut through the quiet of the night.

"Sorcerer."

Merlin nearly jumped out of his skin, but Arthur wasn't looking at him. He was staring off in the direction whence they had come, his shoulders square, his jaw tight. Even in the dim moonlight, Merlin could see the determination on his face.

"I don't know who you are or why you're doing this or even if you can hear me, but…." He lowered his head ever so slightly.

Merlin leaned forward.

"…Thank you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look, Arthur is capable of gratitude. Who'd'a thunk?   
> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Merlin and Arthur Get Very, Very Wet"  
> So I've got a tumblr for my fics and stuff under antares-8. So far it's just a bunch of worldbuilding for my ASoIaF fixit (mostly character profiles for House Stark), the Useful Bloodraven AU, but it might eventually contain some info for this series and my Over the Garden Wall stuff. Also, it has an ask box, if you wanted to use that.


	14. Tales of Carmarthen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Backstory time!

Chapter XIV: Tales of Carmarthen

"…and then he thanked me and went into the citadel," Merlin finished.

Lancelot and Gaius were silent. The latter still looked as though he'd been hit in the face with something heavy. The former seemed torn between happiness for Merlin's sake and concern for Gaius. Concern won out, though, and he said, "That's wonderful, Merlin. It sounds like Arthur is actually making progress. But, Gaius, are you all right?"

That got the physician out of his stupor. "Yes," he said, a bit sheepish, "but…. Merlin, you say that Arthur was dying when you killed Aulfric? Then, after you had killed him, Arthur lived?"

"Yes."

"And you felt a sort of pulling sensation?"

"Yeah." Merlin nodded. "It was really rather weird. I was looking at Arthur and I knew he was beyond healing magic's help. Then Aulfric disintegrated and suddenly I could save Arthur. Do you know what happened?"

"I think so," Gaius said softly, "but…." The physician shook his head. "It shouldn't have been possible."

"What did he do?" Lancelot asked.

"It sounds as though Merlin mirrored life and death without the aid of words or artifacts." Gaius was still shaking his head.

Lancelot glanced helplessly at Merlin, who shrugged. He didn't know what mirroring life and death was either.

Gaius noticed their confusion. "Great works of magic require balance. To save a life, another life must be taken. This is called mirroring life and death, and it is an incredibly difficult spell that even the most powerful and skilled of sorcerers have difficulty with. That you could do it without any training or spells—if you had had, say, the Cup of Life, things would be different, but you didn't have  _anything_ like that. And you're so young! It's simply unheard of."

"Oh" was all Merlin could think to say.

"So it's really no surprise that you lost consciousness. Between the attack last night and all the powerful magic you've been expending, you would have been exhausted." He frowned. "In fact, I would bet that you still are exhausted."

"Not really," Merlin confessed. "I spent most of the day sleeping, not running around the forest like I told the other guards."

"You aren't tired?" Gaius repeated.

"Well, not very." Which was an exaggeration of 'barely at all.' But Gaius looked stunned enough without knowing how quickly Merlin had recovered, and to be honest, that speedy recovery frightened Merlin, too. So did the powerful magic.  _Unheard of_ , Gaius had called it, and just thinking of those words sent a shiver down his spine.

"So what happened after I ran out?" he asked, not wanting to focus on how abnormally powerful he appeared to be.

"Apparently, Sophia had stolen some of Lady Morgana's jewels," Gaius said.

"What?" Merlin's brow furrowed. "But that makes no sense. They were here to kidnap and kill Arthur, not rob Morgana."

"The king believes that they were planning on staying longer than they did. They would have stolen various items around the castle, then absconded with Arthur and the wealth, but Lady Morgana's investigation made them nervous and they fled prematurely," Lancelot explained. "Do Sidhe use jewels in Avalon?"

"I didn't even know what Sidhe were until a couple days ago," Merlin replied. He looked at Gaius, who shrugged.

"Perhaps it was a backup plan," the physician suggested. "Or perhaps Uther is correct, and Sidhe do use rubies. Otherwise, the theft makes very little sense."

"I suspect we'll never know, then," Merlin sighed. "Not with Sophia and Aulfric dead."

Gaius nodded.

"So what else happened?" Merlin asked.

"Nothing much," Lancelot assured him. "From what I understand, it was mostly various people running about searching for Arthur." But there was something in his voice that made Merlin disbelieve him. The warlock turned a questioning stare on his mentor.

Gaius sighed. "He will find out eventually, Lancelot," the physician said gently.

"Find out what?" Merlin asked, fear prickling at his insides.

Lancelot raked his fingers through his hair. "I failed in my duty. No, don't say anything, Merlin. I was tasked to protect the prince and I failed miserably. The king is… displeased with me."

A rush of anger washed away Merlin's fear. "You were one man against two sorcerers of unknown ability. How could he blame you for that? How could you blame  _yourself_  for that? Because I know that face. That's the face of self-recrimination."

"Because I  _did_  fail," Lancelot answered. " _No,_  Merlin, I truly did. Magic or not, I failed to protect Arthur Pendragon, and he nearly died because of it. If you hadn't saved him, he  _would_ be dead and there would be war."

"War?" Merlin asked blankly.

"War," Lancelot confirmed. "Arthur is Uther's only son and heir. Constans and Aurelius both died without issue. If Arthur died, Cenred of Essetir would be the heir apparent, and do you truly believe that Camelot would bow to him? Not to mention that old King Loth in the Orkneys would take advantage of the confusion to get his old kingdom back."

"I hadn't thought about it that way," Merlin confessed. He had known, of course, that Arthur and Cenred were second cousins, that Cenred was only a king because Uther had led a coup to replace Loth with Cenred's father, but he had never considered the implications of that kinship. "But you're right. People might even suspect Cenred of sending Sophia and Aulfric to kill Arthur. Everyone knows he killed his father and brother."

"Yes," murmured Gaius. "I remember how furious Uther was when he received word that Andras and Cadfael were dead. The only reason he didn't start another war with Essetir was that he had no proof Cenred had murdered them. It took many long years before they achieved peace."

"One more reason to keep Arthur alive, then," Merlin muttered. Cenred was bad enough on the throne of Essetir. He didn't want to think about what would happen if he got his hands on one of the richest and most powerful kingdoms in Albion.

"Yes, it is," Lancelot agreed, "and that's why my failure is unforgiveable."

"'Unforgiveable' is a bit much, don't you think?"

"No."

"Um,  _yes,_  it is."

The two young men could probably have continued in that vein all night, but Gaius forestalled them. "There's no way that either of you is going to yield, so perhaps you, Merlin, should go to bed, and you, Lancelot, should get ready to patrol the castle."

Merlin pulled up short, indignant on his friend's behalf. "They're making you patrol again twenty-four hours after you were attacked with magic and nearly killed?"

"Well, yes," Lancelot replied. "I really only have bruises and a sort of lingering soreness. It's really not bad enough to keep me from doing my job."

Merlin snorted. "You realize that Sullivan is only making you do this because he hates you, right?"

"I know that, Merlin. I also know that I can't put another toe out of line while the king is still angry with me, or I'll be on the night shift for the rest of my life." A bitter smile. "Assuming I'm not already."

"But that isn't fair," Merlin protested. " _No,_  Lancelot, it isn't. You were the only man doing his job and trying to protect Arthur, and Sophia had to almost kill you before she could get to him."

"Fair or not, it's a distinct possibility," the guard sighed. "And that's why I need to leave soon. It's almost time for my shift."

Merlin scowled.

Gaius decided to forestall any more arguing. "Aren't you tired, Merlin?"

"Not really. Getting frustrated with Lancelot is really quite invigorating."

Lancelot opened his mouth, but Gaius, in a very transparent attempt to change the subject and prevent strife, asked, "Did you truly not realize that Cenred could inherit Camelot?"

Merlin thought about pursuing his argument but quickly realized that it wasn't worth it. Gaius would just interrupt until they agreed to disagree. Maybe if he could talk to Lancelot alone, then he could convince him that he was completely guiltless. Sophia and Aulfric were at fault, not Lancelot, the only other person who had tried to stop them.

Or maybe not. Lancelot could be quite stubborn when he wanted to be.

So the warlock chose to humor his mentor. "I hadn't really thought about it that way, no. I knew that Uther put Andras on the throne because they were cousins, though."

"Because they were cousins, yes," Gaius confirmed, "and because of Vortigern."

Merlin winced.

The warlock's reaction did not go unnoticed. The physician and the guardsman stared at him in befuddlement for a few moments before the light dawned in Gaius's eyes. "Oh, Merlin, please tell me it isn't you in that tale."

Merlin grinned sheepishly.

Lancelot's eyes went wide. "The little boy in the story, that was you?"

"Yes," Merlin sighed. "But a lot of the tale has gotten messed up over the years."

Lancelot glanced out the window. "If it's quick, I have time to hear the story now. If you wanted to tell it, that is." He seemed to have forgotten about his self-recrimination.

"No, I can tell." The warlock sank into his chair, eyes going distant as he remembered what had probably been the most traumatic experience of his childhood.

"Vortigern went into hiding after Uther won back Camelot. Then the Purge came and Vortigern started slithering around, trying to gather support for his claim to Camelot's throne. He eventually gained enough followers that King Loth had to negotiate with him or risk another civil war in Camelot that would probably embroil Essetir, too. So Loth gave him a little city on Mount Snowdon, a place called Carmarthen, and Vortigern became one of his lords. Uther wasn't happy, but Loth assured him that Carmarthen was enough to keep Vortigern busy and that he'd agreed to give up his claim in return for his life."

Merlin smiled. "But I didn't know that at the time. I was just a little boy and didn't really know a thing about politics. All I knew was that Carmarthen was a big, exciting city—at least to a country boy from Ealdor—and I was so excited that Mother was taking me there. Someone in the village always went to Carmarthen to get winter supplies and pay the village's taxes. Mother's turn came when I was six, almost seven. I remember being very proud of myself because Mother told me that I was a big enough boy to go with her. Now, of course, I know that she just couldn't risk leaving me behind with people who didn't know about my magic, but like I said, I was just six at the time.

"So we went to Carmarthen. I played with some of the servant boys while Mother went to give Vortigern the taxes from Ealdor. Somehow—I don't recall exactly how—it got out that I was a bastard, and the other boys started mocking me about how I was a fatherless country hick.

"That was when one of Vortigern's advisors came out. He overheard the other boys and went back to his master. A few minutes later, he came back with two guards. They dragged me before Vortigern.

"Vortigern had been trying to build another castle atop Mount Snowdon. His current seat was old and run-down and couldn't really defend against a concentrated assault from Camelot, so he wanted—needed—a proper fort on the mountaintop. But the castle he was trying to build kept collapsing. His advisors, a bunch of Saxon quacks, told him that he needed to sacrifice a fatherless child and bathe the foundation stones in blood if he wanted the fort to stand. If he did that, they said, the fortress would be impregnable."

Lancelot scowled. "And he intended to do that to you."

Merlin nodded. "Yeah. I think that it had something to do with me being from the countryside. There were bastards aplenty in Carmarthen, but they usually had mothers or siblings or  _someone_  looking out for them. That, or they were grown, and those stupid fakes said the victim had to be a child. The people of Carmarthen already resented him for drawing Uther's attention to their city. I think that Vortigern was worried about starting a riot. I was from the country, though, so it would be a lot easier to make me and maybe even Mother disappear."

"That's awful," Gaius interjected. "Yet it is the sort of reasoning Vortigern would follow."

"Did you ever know him, Gaius?" Lancelot asked.

"Fortunately I did not. I was part of the group that escaped to Armorica with Uther and Aurelius. But I served them both as a battlefield medic, and I overheard enough war councils to learn how Vortigern thought. Eventually Aurelius started asking what I thought Vortigern would do in such and such a situation. After his brother died, Uther kept up the habit."

"So you think I'm right?" Merlin asked. "Because the bit about the riot is just my speculation. I couldn't exactly ask him why he chose a country bastard instead of one from the city."

"I think that you're right," Gaius said. "It certainly fits with what I know of Vortigern's reasoning."

"What happened after Vortigern took you?" Lancelot asked.

That was right, he had to leave for his shift soon. Merlin returned to his tale.

"He asked about my mother, but I didn't say anything. I'm just glad that he wasn't very smart, or he'd have made the connection between me and the peasant woman who had just given him her village's taxes." The warlock paused, frowned. "On second thought, I'm not glad he was stupid. If he'd been smarter, he'd never have listened to those Saxons.

"But anyways, he asked me about my mother and I kept silent, so he asked me if I knew why I was there. I didn't, of course, so I just stayed silent and kind of glared at him, which I somehow doubt was very intimidating. I was trying to figure out if I could use magic to escape and how much trouble I'd be in when Mother found out about it. I was also trying to be as insolent as possible."

Both his listeners cracked a grin at that.

"Then Vortigern got this awful, ugly smile. He leaned over and told me that his men were going to kill me so he could raise a castle, and he was only asking about my mother so that we could say our goodbyes before he murdered me."

Gaius went white. Lancelot's eyes widened until they nearly fell out of his head.

"What happened next…. I've never been good at looking into the future. Apparently I spout gibberish prophesies when I'm drunk, but I'm no seer. I used to be a bit better. As a child, I could apparently predict the weather, and once I warned Mother about a rabid bear. But Carmarthen was the last time I predicted anything of substance.

"I can't remember exactly what I said to Vortigern. There was definitely something about how his so-called advisors were using him. There was also a bit about how Uther would soon come for him and take revenge for his father and brothers. But there was also something about the castle. I told him that he didn't need the blood of a fatherless child to make his foundations stand. His false friends were lying to him. Instead, he should dig twenty feet below the cornerstone. If he did that, he would find an underground grotto with two wyverns in it, one red and one white."

"Wyverns?" Lancelot interrupted. "I thought they were dragons?"

Merlin shook his head. "The storytellers exaggerated. They thought that dragons sounded more impressive. But they were just two wyverns, red and white, and they were the ones who kept destroying the castle.

"I guess Vortigern had been feeling suspicious for a while, because he actually ordered his men to dig a pit. They did, and they found the two wyverns there. They were fighting. The red one was about twice the white one's size. It was old and clever, but the white one was young and quick and strong.

"I told Vortigern that he was the white wyvern and the Pendragons were the red. He was glad of that, I remember. At the time I said that, the white wyvern looked like it was winning. It had wounded the red one and even tore off one of its legs. Then the red one rallied. It killed the white, then retreated deeper into the cavern to lick its wounds. Vortigern sent men after it, but the red wyvern was never seen again."

"I suspect it's gone to the Perilous Lands," Gaius speculated. Lancelot shushed him.

"After that, Vortigern decided not to sacrifice me. He had this idea that I could make him into the greatest king there ever was and that he would name his new keep Dinas Emrys in my honor."

Had Merlin been looking at Gaius, he would have seen the old man jerk as though stung. He would have seen his blue eyes go wide, his jaw sag ever so slightly. But Merlin was paying more attention to the window and the time than to his mentor, and he didn't notice.

Merlin continued, "He proclaimed me his new right hand and had all his Saxon quacks put to death. I knew he'd do the same to me if I stopped being useful to him, so I spent the next couple of days spouting prophetic-sounding nonsense about pigs and many-horned mutant animals and whatnot. Vortigern's scribe wrote it all down, so my ramblings are probably still there somewhere.

"Mother knew right away what had happened to me, and she didn't waste time planning a rescue. Remember how Vortigern was worried about a riot?"

Lancelot's eyes went huge. "She didn't."

Merlin grinned. "She  _did._ "

"So that's where you get your ability to cause trouble," Gaius said. Merlin glared. "Oh, don't look at me like that. You just told me that Hunith started a riot to save you."

"It wasn't causing trouble. It was a very well-intentioned riot."

Gaius's eyebrow ascended past his hairline.

"…okay, maybe it was troublesome. But only for Vortigern, and he deserved it."

"I would like to meet her someday," Lancelot muttered. "Not everyone would start a riot to save her son."

"You'd like her," Merlin assured him, "and I think she'd like you too. Maybe I'll introduce you one day."

"One day," Gaius agreed. "But I don't think Lancelot has much free time left, Merlin."

"Oh, that's right. Sorry." Merlin returned to the story. "So Mother's riot went right up to the castle. Like I'd said earlier, it was old and rundown and not particularly defensible. The guardsmen put up a token resistance, but soon the city dwellers had broken in and Mother snuck off to find me. She did, obviously, and we fled the city that very day.

"A few weeks later, news reached Ealdor that Uther had heard about the debacle in Carmarthen. People were saying that he wouldn't tolerate an alliance between Vortigern and a sorcerer, so he was going to invade in the spring. Loth, of course, tried to stop that, and the rest is history. Uther put Andras on the throne and Loth had to flee to the Orkneys, where he waits even now to reclaim his kingdom. Uther and Andras sent men to find Vortigern's sorcerer, and eventually they found a boy who looked enough like me that…. Well. The other boy died in my place." He shivered. It was only with a conscious effort that he made his last words relatively cheerful. "And the rest is history. The end."

Lancelot shook his head. "That's incredible."

"It is," Gaius agreed.

"That poor boy, though."

"Yes," Merlin agreed. "Him and his mother as well."

Lancelot shuddered.

"But Arthur's going to put an end to that," Merlin whispered. "He  _has_  to."

"He will, Merlin," Lancelot vowed. "I know that you can persuade him."

"How?"

Lancelot didn't answer right away. When he spoke, his voice was measured, even, somber. "Keep doing what you're doing with the light. Don't let him forget that there's a warlock looking out for him. Teach him to question his father and his father's hate. Remind him of the druids and all the other peaceful folk with magic. And above all, never give up."

"I won't."

Lancelot smiled. "I know."

* * *

Gaius didn't need the candle, not really. He had lived in these quarters for over twenty years. He knew about the hidden nooks in the wall, about the spider web that just kept coming back, which floorboards were squeaky and which were steady. But he took a candle anyways on his short trip into Merlin's room.

The boy was fast asleep, his breathing slow and steady. The candle's dim light cast long shadows across his features, making them sharper, more pronounced. But there was still a hint of softness in that elfin face, a trace of boyishness and mischief and innocence. Looking at him now, Gaius could see very little of the powerful warlock he truly was. It was hard to imagine that Merlin had any power whatsoever, much less that he was Emrys himself.

 _Emrys._  Just thinking the name invoked a cacophony of emotions, fear and hope and joy and loss and sorrow and awe and a million others.

It was a bit embarrassing, really, now that he knew. The dragon had told Merlin that he was destined to protect a future king who would one day bring magic back into the land. Merlin was a powerful warlock, more powerful than anyone Gaius had ever met.  _Of course_  he was Emrys. What else could he be?

But it was difficult to see a figure out of legend in the grinning boy so full of quick comebacks, brave to the point of foolishness, a servant responsible for mucking stables. What little Gaius knew about Emrys—and he was the first to admit that he didn't know much at all—had made him think that the warlock was strength and wisdom made manifest. Gaius had pictured an elderly man, still hale despite his years, with eyes like deep water and a long white beard. He hadn't thought of a boy.

But all old men were boys once. Even Emrys had to start out somewhere.

That preconception was only part of the reason that Gaius hadn't immediately realized his ward's place in prophecy. He'd never really studied the Albion Cycle, preferring medical texts and more practical, immediately useful knowledge. Prophecy was for druids and Vates and seers, not for a physician like him. He knew only the basics and had always assumed he would never live to see the predictions fulfilled. Decades later, he could remember little more than a handful of names.

Emrys, the most powerful warlock in the world, guide and guardian to the Once and Future King who would save magic at its darkest hour. Merlin and Arthur, and wasn't it strange to think that he had delivered both of them? He'd brought two legends into the world, an odd and overwhelming thought.

There were others, he knew, something about a brotherhood of warriors and a controversial queen, but the only other thing he could recall were a few virtues, cryptic references to the various characters. Strength, Skill, Resilience…. What were the others? Courage was one, he thought, and Wisdom and Justice and Grace. Honor and Restraint, Cunning and Quickness, Knowledge and Insight. There were others, too, he knew, but these were all he could remember.

Who were they? He probably already knew some of them, would meet others in the future.

But that was in the future. He was old and tired with a warm bed awaiting him, and he didn't want to tell Merlin what he had discovered without more information. He needed to sneak into the hidden library for research before he told his ward about the prophecies. So he pinched out the candle, whispered, "Good night, Merlin Emrys," and went off to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The point of this chapter is to provide backstory and to at least TRY to reconcile the myths and the show. The next three paragraphs are myth notes.
> 
> Merlin's story comes to us from Geoffrey of Monmouth, who told it in his History of the Kings of Britain. I've altered a few details-Hunith is neither a princess nor a nun, the dragons were really wyverns and they didn't represent the Celts and Saxons, and the Prophecies of Merlin didn't occur until after Vortigern's men dug the hole. "What prophecies?" you ask. The Prophecies of Merlin, a rambling, cryptic rant about the future of the world. In my fic, they're the nonsense Merlin babbled out when he was trying not to die. Vortigern only thought they were real prophecies.
> 
> In legend, Uther was the youngest son of Constantine. Vortigern killed Constantine and Constans, his eldest, before taking over the kingdom. Uther and his brother Aurelius (and Gaius!) fled to Armorica, where they grew up, gathered an army, and prepared to reclaim their kingdom. Aurelius was supposed to be king, but he died (poison, or battle, or poison that weakened him before the battle and contributed to his death) and Uther took the throne.
> 
> Loth and Lot are unambiguously identified as kings of the Orkney Islands. However, in the show, Lot takes over Essetir after Cenred's death. This is my attempt to explain why: Lot's dad Loth was the original king, and he reclaimed the throne after the usurper's death.
> 
> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Merlin Relates a Tale Explaining Why Hunith is Pretty Much the Best Mom Ever"
> 
> Sorry about not answering reviews for awhile. I'll try to do it tomorrow or Sunday.


	15. Thoughts and Theories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur would like to know what's going on.

Chapter XV: Thoughts and Theories

Arthur Pendragon couldn't sleep.

Part of it, he knew, was the fact that he'd been unconscious for who-knows-how-long. The last thing he remembered was climbing into bed, and that had been a full day ago. For all he knew, he hadn't awakened at any time between then and his return to consciousness in the forest.

But most of the reason he could not sleep involved his whirling, tumbling thoughts. The light had come again, the same light that had saved him months ago in the Cave of Balor. It had guided him through the night, away from that oddly  _blurred_  place in the woods and back to Camelot.

Shouldn't his sorcerer ( _his_ sorcerer? Since when had the light sender been  _his_  sorcerer?) have lost himself to corruption by now? It had been months since the spiders in the cave, almost an entire season. By this point, the sorcerer shouldn't be at all interested in helping anyone else. It made no sense.

That, at least, everyone agreed on. Arthur had been mostly truthful as he gave his report to Uther. He didn't have much of a story, he'd said; he just woke up in the middle of nowhere, not knowing how he'd gotten there or how much time had passed, and made his way back home. Arthur had not mentioned the light, of course, but things were confusing enough even without the intervention of a mystery sorcerer. What on Earth had Sophia and Aulfric been up to? How and why had they abducted Arthur? What had become of them? Why had they stolen Morgana's rubies only to abandon them mere hours later? Why had they abandoned Arthur in the middle of nowhere? Uther had worried that the foreigners had placed his son under some sort of enchantment, a compulsion to do something awful but unspecified, but Gaius had examined his prince and pronounced him free of magical meddling.

Now, lying in bed, Arthur thought he had puzzled out a few answers.

He had not been abandoned in the forest because it was part of Sophia's plan, whatever that may be. He had been left there because his sorcerer had saved him.

The realization had not come quickly, but once it took up residence in Arthur's brain, he wanted to kick himself for not seeing it before. He was free from enchantment and back home. Sophia had easily defeated Lancelot, one of the best fighters in Camelot. She and Aulfric had disappeared entirely. None of the guards or knights had claimed credit for vanquishing the sorcerers and rescuing the prince.

It had to be Arthur's sorcerer. Sophia and Aulfric had stolen the prince. It didn't really matter why they'd taken him, just that they had. Arthur had no doubt that their reason, whatever it was, would have been distinctly unpleasant. But they had taken him for their unpleasant purpose and then Arthur's sorcerer had gotten wind of the plot and gone to stop them. A sorcerer would be able to defend himself against the staffs' magic, but any mundane soldier would have gone down as quickly as Lancelot.

So Arthur's sorcerer had caught up to the kidnappers and their prisoners. There had probably been a fight of some sort, as Arthur doubted that Aulfric would have handed him over willingly. His sorcerer had triumphed over the Tir-mors, possibly killing them. Then his sorcerer had waited until Arthur regained consciousness before summoning his light to guide the prince home.

A part of Arthur was annoyed. Couldn't his sorcerer have brought him back to Camelot? Except that was a very stupid thought. If the sorcerer had carried Arthur back home, he would have been found and questioned by the guards. For obvious reasons, no sorcerer would want to be detained and interrogated by men in Uther Pendragon's employ.

So his sorcerer had driven off or killed the Tir-mors, removed any and all enchantments from Arthur (if he'd been enchanted), healed his wounds (if he'd been wounded), and then guided him home. Once again, a guiding light had appeared when Arthur needed it most. He probably owed his very life to the man or woman who had conjured it.

And that didn't make a lick of sense.

This isn't how the world worked. Pendragons and sorcerers were enemies. They killed (or tried to kill) each other. They didn't go around saving each other's lives. Sorcerers were evil and the men of Camelot were good and there could be no compromise between them. Except apparently no one had thought to explain this to Arthur's sorcerer, because he seemed hell-bent on breaking every rule in the book.

He should have been corrupt and evil and foul by now. He should have been like all the others.

But he wasn't.

How long did it take for magic to ruin a soul?

Arthur realized that he didn't know how long it took for magic to rot away a man's goodness. He didn't know if it was a constant rate, the same for everyone, or if it varied according to power and skill and how often the sorcerer practiced and how good a person he was beforehand. He didn't know  _anything_  about magic.

And that, the prince determined, was a problem.

He needed to learn more about this threat to his kingdom. Gaius was Camelot's go-to man for problems of a supernatural nature, but Gaius wouldn't be around forever. Arthur had to learn more if he wanted to protect his people. And, said a tiny voice in his mind, maybe learning about magic would help him understand his sorcerer and why the man (if it even was a man) wanted Arthur safe.

His mind made up, the prince leaned into his pillows and fell fast asleep.

He woke to Merlin's worried face. The servant gave his master a quick once-over, probably searching for evidence of some horrific curse. When he didn't find any, his pale face broke out in a wide smile. "How are you feeling?"

"Well enough. Where's my breakfast?"

"I went to the kitchens to get it, I really did, but then the cook told me that your father wanted to dine with you this morning, so I ate it."

"What?"

"You're going to be eating with Uther and I hadn't had anything to eat."

"You can't just eat my food!"

"I didn't," Merlin sniffed. "It wasn't yours anymore since you are, as I have mentioned, supposed to eat with your father. Now. Or maybe five minutes ago. You might have made yourself late by lecturing me about food that isn't even yours."

"You're an idiot, Merlin," Arthur grumbled, but he hurried over to the changing screen and said nothing more on the subject. Uther was not particularly forgiving of tardiness.

Fortunately, Merlin had been exaggerating. No surprise there. Uther was just sitting down when Arthur entered the royal bedchambers, his manservant at his heels.

"Arthur. You are well?"

"Quite well, Father."

"Did you dream last night?"

"No," the prince replied, a bit surprised by the question. "Why do you ask?"

"I thought that perhaps the sorcerers could have cast some spell to affect your sleeping mind. Nightmares, perhaps, or a compulsion that first manifested as a dream."

Arthur frowned as he took his seat. "Can sorcerers do that? Compel you through your dreams, I mean."

"Some can control another's dreams, yes. I once saw a man driven to madness from his sorcerous nightmares."

"I did not know they could do that," Arthur muttered.

"Magic is capable of many things, my son."

"Yes," the prince agreed, "that it is. Actually, Father, I would like to talk with you about that." He leaned forward, ignoring the bacon and eggs on his plate. "I realized yesterday that I know very little about magic. I know that it's evil and has to be eradicated, but what can it do? What can't it do? What creatures of magic pose the most threat to Camelot, and what can I do to protect the people from them? Are there any non-magical ways to break curses? I don't know the answers to any of those questions, and that's a weakness in my education."

Uther swallowed, then placed his fork and knife onto the table. "Do you know why you have not been taught these things?"

"Well, no."

"It is because learning about magic can easily develop into learning magic itself."

Arthur jerked back, stung. "You can't seriously think I would betray you like that."

"Magic is as insidious as it is foul. I did not want a child to learn more about it than was absolutely necessary."

"But I'm almost a legal adult," Arthur pointed out. "I turn twenty-one in April, and then I'll be a man in the eyes of the law."

Uther frowned at him. "Perhaps I will permit you to learn about magic then. For now, leave that knowledge to Gaius."

Arthur had half-expected this response. "I understand why you want me to wait, but Gaius isn't getting younger. If anything happens to him, then  _Merlin_  will take over his duties."

The king's eyes went wide in abject horror.

"Excuse me?" Merlin squawked.

"You will begin your lessons this evening," Uther proclaimed.

Merlin gave Arthur a very nasty look. The prince made a mental note to expect cold food for the next fortnight.

"And perhaps I shall send for another physician," Uther speculated. "Perhaps I should even—yes, a witchfinder would be an excellent addition to the castle. Arthur, remind me to summon Aredian."

"Yes, Father," the prince replied. He had to suppress a grimace. He'd met Aredian once, many years ago, and had not liked him at all. Still, a professional witchfinder would know all about magic's limitations.

"Who's Aredian?" Merlin muttered. Arthur didn't answer.

"You. Boy." Uther turned his baleful gaze onto the servant. "What has Gaius been teaching you?"

Merlin's eyes went wide. "Um… medicine?"

"About magic," the king said impatiently.

"He's been teaching me languages, mostly," Merlin confessed. The boy was very rigid, his back ramrod straight, his limbs stiff. He obviously hadn't recovered from his fear of the king. "Latin, Greek, the Old Tongue, Irish. For his books, you see. If something goes wrong, at least I'll be able to read his books to figure out what to do about it. But it's been going slower than I'd like because I have my servant duties to attend to and then I'm also trying to learn some medicine."

"And because you're you," Arthur muttered.

Merlin arched a brow at him. " _Gaius melior me quam te linguas scire dicebat._ "

Arthur blinked. He'd never had much use for Latin, not now that the Romans were gone. He'd much preferred to go out to the training field, reasoning that learning to swing a sword was much more useful than some language that everyone would forget soon enough. Now that he was older, he could see that he should have paid more attention to his education.

But that didn't mean he was going to relearn Latin.

Uther blinked. " _Bene dicis,_ " he said, surprised.

" _Gratias tibi ago,"_  Merlin mumbled.

Hm. Perhaps he  _should_ learn Latin again.

Or perhaps he should just learn about magic. Surely there couldn't be too many books about magic in Latin, right?

"Perhaps Camelot isn't completely doomed," Uther said, still staring thoughtfully at Merlin. The servant's ears were going red, though his frame was still tense. "Still, Arthur, you will commence with your lessons immediately after dinner. Until then, go about your duties but try not to strain yourself. If you sense anything wrong with yourself, go immediately to Gaius. I will not take the risk that you've been cursed."

Arthur bowed his head in assent.

They finished their meal in silence, then departed for the day's tasks. Arthur wanted to go down to the practice field, but the memory of his father's order stopped him. He had a feeling that training would count as straining himself.

"You could start working on that huge pile of paperwork on your desk," Merlin suggested.

Arthur shuddered. "And why would I do that?"

"Because it needs to be done," Merlin informed him.

Somehow, the prince ended up taking his servant's advice. Not because Merlin had suggested it, of course, but because it had to be done and if he did it now, he'd have more time to train when he was allowed to pick up his sword again.

Arthur finally finished his task less than an hour before dinner. He moaned with relief, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. He hated paperwork. He absolutely despised it.

"You all right?"

The prince cracked his eyes open, turned to look at Merlin. The servant had spent the day cleaning Arthur's room and polishing everything that could be polished. Arthur knew quite well that the polishing/cleaning spree was nothing more than an excuse so that Merlin could keep an eye on Arthur, just in case the prince started foaming at the mouth or something.

"I'm fine," Arthur grumbled. "Just glad to be done, that's all."

Merlin nodded. "I know the feeling."

Arthur considered making some pointed comment, but hours of paperwork had sapped his will. He didn't particularly want to argue with Merlin. He wanted to get up and move a little before supper and his first lesson about magic.

"I'm going for a walk."

"Good idea," said Merlin, setting down a brilliantly shiny helm. "I'll go with you."

"I don't recall inviting you."

Merlin's expression became innocent. "But, sire, what if you need me?"

"Don't you have stables to muck or something?"

"No."

"I don't need you, Merlin."

"This from a man who can't dress himself."

Arthur searched his desk for a projectile but saw only his quill.

"But seriously, Arthur," the boy continued, his voice losing its teasing tone, "I think I should go with you."

The prince heaved a long, exaggerated sigh and threw the quill at Merlin. As it was a quill, it fluttered to the ground less than a foot from his hand. No surprise there. Perhaps he could pry the inkwell out of his desk. That was heavy enough to hit.

"You probably shouldn't start throwing things at me," Merlin announced. He gestured to the various pieces of armor around him. "As you can see, I have more ammunition."

"I'm going for that walk now. Good-bye."

As expected, Merlin followed him. He was like a little puppy, that one, going everywhere with its master and getting in the way. At least he had enough decency to stay quiet and not chatter away.

Arthur wandered for a while, pausing for a brief conversation with Morgana and Guinevere, then meandering up to one of the towers. Camelot sprawled before him, the white stone of the keep giving way to the drab browns of peasants' roofs. The outer wall was another circle of white, with deep green forest behind it. The sun was low in the sky, only a couple of hours away from setting, occasionally slipping behind a puffy white cloud. It had been a lovely day. From the looks of things, tomorrow would be equally pleasant. He would definitely have to spend time outside tomorrow.

Smiling at the thought, Arthur let his gaze wander over the citadel. One day, this would all be his: his land, his people, his responsibility. Yet for once, the thought didn't cause him worry or strain or even pride, just a quiet happiness. He was still drained from the paperwork, but, he thought, smiling down at his city, Camelot was worth all the forms and signatures.

He was looking at the forest now. He was too far to make out details, but he could make out a few of the taller trees and he could see the long, straight gaps where his ancestors had built roads. As he looked, his thoughts drifted to his recent inexplicable kidnapping.

Arthur's smile faded.

"Say, Merlin."

The servant jumped. "Yes?"

"Did anyone go out there today?"

"Out where?"

"To the forest, you lackwit."

Merlin pouted. "In my defense, you could have been talking about the city."

Arthur glared.

His servant shrugged. "I assume that someone went out into the forest. Probably several someones. Traders, maybe a few peasants gathering wood."

Arthur closed his eyes. "I meant to follow my trail."

"Oh! No, not that I'm aware of."

The prince frowned. "So no one tried to retrace my footsteps?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Then that's what we'll be doing tomorrow."

"…it is?"

"No need to sound so nervous, Merlin. I doubt that Sophia and Aulfric are still out there, and if they are, I'll be there to protect you from the big, scary sorcerers."

Merlin rolled his eyes. "I think it's the other way around, sire."

Arthur rolled his eyes right back. "You're delusional."

"So why exactly do you want to go back?"

"To look for clues, of course."

"What kinds of clues do you expect to find?"

"I don't know." Arthur shrugged. "Tracks, maybe. I can at least follow my own trail back to where I woke up. Maybe from there I could find some more tracks, learn what happened to Aulfric and Sophia."

"Okay," Merlin said. "Just as long as you don't challenge them, all right? Sophia took Lancelot down all by herself. She's with her father now."

"Yes, yes," Arthur grumbled, "I'll be careful."

He doubted there was any need to be careful. There was a high possibility that the sorcerers were dead, that Arthur's sorcerer had killed them. But finding the bodies would—oh.  _Oh_. Perhaps he shouldn't take Merlin on any adventure which might result in the discovery of two-day-old human corpses. Except Merlin was too bloody stubborn to let himself be left behind. He'd spent all of yesterday running around the woods looking for a trace of his master. No doubt he would just follow Arthur whether Arthur wanted him to or not.

Hopefully Merlin wouldn't faint. Arthur really didn't want to lug an unconscious manservant all the way back to the citadel or wait around in the woods until he woke up, and it wasn't like he could just abandon the boy in the middle of nowhere. Merlin was completely helpless on his own and as skinny as a broom. He'd get lost and starve.

"How long do you think it's going to take?" Merlin asked.

"I don't know. A few hours, probably."

"Remind me to ask Gaius what herbs he needs," the servant continued. "I might as well pick some while we're out in the forest."

"We're going on an investigative mission, not a flower-picking expedition."

"I know that. If we were picking flowers, I'd invite Gwen. She loves flowers."

"No flowers, Merlin."

"But what if Gaius needs flowers?"

"I said no flowers."

"I can get some for you too, if you'd like. It's only fair to return the favor."

Blast it. It had been weeks since Merlin brought that up. "Just shut up, Merlin."

The boy thought it over, tapping a finger to his chin and taking an unreasonably long time to voice his decision. Arthur used that unreasonably long time to brace himself for a headache.

Finally Merlin smiled at him. "If you insist, sire."

"I do insist. Now stay quiet and follow me. It's time for dinner."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Latin translations: "Gaius... dicebat" means "Gaius says I know languages better than you." "Bene dicis" is "You speak well." "Gratias tibi ago" is "Thank you."
> 
> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Merlin is a Shameless Breakfast Thief."
> 
> ...I really will answer comments this week. Yeah.


	16. The First Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur learns a few things about magic.

Chapter XVI: The First Lesson

Merlin had been thinking about his upcoming magical theory lesson all day. He wasn't anticipating the material—no doubt he and Gaius had covered that months ago. Instead, he was trying to figure out what it meant that Arthur was demonstrating interest in learning more about magic.

That had to be a good thing, right? It showed that he was curious, starting to ask questions. Curiosity was good. Even better, he was asking his questions to Gaius, not to his father. Gaius wouldn't answer with that old tired line about how magic is evil and must be destroyed and blah blah blah. Gaius would answer honestly. Honest answers might make him doubt Uther's propaganda.

And Merlin knew, he just  _knew_  that his light had something to do with this. Yes, Sophia and Aulfric had nearly killed Arthur, but other sorcerers had nearly killed him and he hadn't asked for lessons after those experiences. He hadn't asked for lessons after the Cave of Balor, either, but perhaps he'd thought the light was a one-time event or some weird manifestation of the cave's power. Now he knew that that wasn't true, and he wanted to learn more about magic.

So Merlin was quite excited about the lesson. He channeled that energy into his chores, polishing like a fiend until Arthur went on his little walk. Their conversation atop the tower put a bit of a damper on Merlin's enthusiasm. What if Arthur found something that incriminated his manservant? He supposed he would just say something like, "Well, Arthur, you know that I was running around the forest all day looking for you. I probably just passed by here." Merlin didn't think that was particularly likely, but Arthur was a better tracker than he was.

Ah, well. There was always sabotage.

Time passed at a crawl. It was an eternity before the servants began clearing away dishes and silverware. Finally Arthur rose and strode towards the physician's chambers.

Gaius was seeing to a patient, a kitchen girl who had been burnt a few days ago and developed an infection. Sir Leon was there as well, though Merlin couldn't see anything wrong with him. He supposed that the knight might be sick or something.

"I'll be ready in just a moment, sire," Gaius said, not looking up from his inspection of the kitchen girl's wound. "You can sit with Sir Leon at the cleared table."

Merlin trotted to his chamber. As he rummaged through his possessions, he heard Arthur ask, "Leon's learning too?"

"Yes," the knight said. "I'm not quite certain what it is we're learning, though. The king just said something about me being more reliable than an idiot savant and therefore less likely to doom Camelot."

Arthur laughed. "Did you hear that, Merlin?" he called.

Merlin pretended to have gone temporarily deaf. He remained in his room, shuffling about as though searching for something even though h e'd already gotten what he was looking for. He hadn't exactly hidden it, just placed it in the midst of some other books that he wanted to read when he had time or that he used to practice his languages or to help Lancelot learn to read.

"So what  _are_  we learning about?" Leon queried.

"Sorcerers," Arthur replied. "Magical creatures. How to defeat the things that constantly try to doom Camelot."

"Then why is it just the two of us? You would think that every knight and guardsman should learn that sort of thing."

"Apparently learning about magic is just one small step away from learning magic itself," Arthur grumbled. Merlin could practically hear him roll his eyes. "I guess he didn't want the entire garrison turning into sorcerers."

"Oh." Leon sounded rather dubious, which Merlin was pleased to hear.

"It didn't make much sense to me either," Arthur confessed. "Perhaps that can be our first lesson."

"All done here," Gaius murmured to the kitchen girl. "It's healing well. You should be as good as new by the end of the week."

"Thank you, Gaius," the girl mumbled. She bobbed a quick curtsey to Arthur and darted out of the room.

Merlin chose that moment to make his return. He carried his notebook in one hand and a small, half-full inkwell in the other. His quill was currently acting as a bookmark. "There's more ink for when we run out. I thought that we could share, if only to save a bit of space."

The knights just blinked at him.

"Weren't you planning on taking notes?" Merlin demanded.

"I thought that this was some sort of hands-on medical lesson," Leon protested, holding up his hands in an age-old gesture of pacification.

Merlin supposed that was a decent enough excuse, so he grabbed a few loose sheets of parchment from one of the other tables. "You can find somebody to bind it later," he said.

"Aren't you forgetting something, Merlin?" Arthur demanded.

"No. I consciously chose not to get you any parchment because you knew exactly what this was and you didn't bother to bring anything, you lazy dolt."

"You don't have much room to call anyone a lazy dolt."

Gaius cleared his throat. "I think that that's enough. Merlin, get some parchment for Arthur."

"All right, Gaius."

"How do you do it?" Arthur asked. "How do you make him listen to you?"

"He doesn't," the physician grumbled. "Merlin does as he pleases. Occasionally he chooses to do as I say, but I would hardly bet my life on his obedience."

"I  _am_ right here, you know," Merlin reminded them.

"How could we forget?" muttered Leon.

Arthur laughed. Gaius chuckled. Even Merlin cracked a grin.

When the laughter died down, the physician addressed his students. "Since everyone has paper and quills, we ought to get started. The first thing we need to do is establish a basic vocabulary. Most of the terms used to describe magic are interchangeable when used colloquially. People simply don't know any better, so they refer to, say, a warlock as a wizard or a sorcerer. However, since we're going to be studying magic academically, we need to understand the terms."

This was essentially the same lecture that Gaius had given Merlin a few months ago, right after he'd referred to himself as a wizard. He probably wouldn't have to take notes, but he opened his book to the first page anyways. There was always a chance that Gaius would mention some new information.

"The first, most fundamental difference among magic users is the difference between sorcerer and sorceress and warlock and witch. Do you have any guesses what it might be?"

"Power?" Leon suggested.

"Not at all. That's the second difference we'll discuss. Arthur?"

The prince frowned, brow furrowing in thought. "One sort is fully corrupt and the other isn't?"

Merlin choked.

Gaius's eyebrow shot straight up.

Arthur flushed ever so slightly. "Then what  _is_  the difference?"

"Sorcerers and sorceresses need to learn to access magic. Their power is learned, not innate. Witches and warlocks are born with magical power lying dormant in their veins. Eventually, they manifest their innate abilities unconsciously. They don't need to learn magic, just control."

Arthur looked as though he'd been hit in the face with a fish. A live one, at least fifteen pounds, flopping around and covered in slime. "But that's not possible," he protested.

"Which part isn't possible?"

"People can't be born with magic!" he erupted.

"Yes, they can be." Gaius was frowning at him. "I thought you knew this."

"No, I thought—but they can stop, can't they? I mean, a person could be born predisposed to, I don't know, getting raging drunk, but they can always choose not to drink."

"They can try," Gaius admitted. "The weaker witches and warlocks might even succeed. But what usually happens is that a witch or warlock who has gone too long without using magic will manifest their power in their sleep."

"In their  _sleep?"_

"Yes. Control is weaker when the conscious mind isn't awake. The magic either slips out by itself, often in the form of a nimbus of light, or the warlock casts a spell in his dreams. The spell then manifests in the waking world."

"But wouldn't that happen even if the sorc—sorry, warlock was using magic while awake?" Leon interjected. "Using it in his sleep, I mean."

"It usually doesn't. No one is quite sure why, but a warlock who uses magic during the day rarely slips up at night. I once read a theory that control is like a single stream of water moving through two adjacent pipes. The water is magic. The first pipe is daytime usage, the second unconscious usage at night. If the first pipe is kept unblocked, then one can easily stop up the second pipe so that all water flows through the first. If, however, one attempts to block both pipes, the water pressure will continue to build until it breaks through the weaker barrier, which is almost always the second pipe."

"But," Arthur protested, "what you're saying is that some people have no choice."

"They don't," Gaius confirmed.

"That's not true," Merlin interrupted. "They can choose which pipe to block up."

"About using magic!" Arthur bellowed. "He's saying—you're saying that there are people who  _have_  to use magic."

"Yes," Gaius confirmed.

Arthur just shook his head. He still looked as though he'd been beaten repeatedly by that enormous, flopping fish.

"Sire?"

Gaius's concern broke through Arthur's daze. The prince blinked rapidly, gave his head a little shake, then squared his shoulders and commanded, "Continue the lesson, Gaius."

"Very well." The physician paused for a moment, probably to remember where he was at in his lecture.

"Sorcerers and witches are both spellbinders. 'Spellbinder' is the most general term for a practitioner of magic. Weak or powerful, born with the gift or not, everyone who can perform magic is considered a spellbinder. This term even refers to passive receptacles of magic such as seers, who can glimpse the future but often possess no other magical ability."

"Right," Leon mumbled, scribbling down the information. Merlin sincerely hoped that he wasn't recording Gaius's every word. He didn't want the knight to get hand cramps.

A quick look into the inkwell revealed that they didn't have much ink left, probably due to Leon's overly thorough note keeping. Merlin padded towards the cabinet where Gaius kept his ink, grabbed a bottle of black, and returned. Neither Arthur nor Leon noticed. They had been too intent on Gaius's lecture.

"Spellbinders are also divided along lines of strength," Gaius had said. "It's comparable to how some men can physically lift more weight than others. Magical strength depends on many factors, just as muscular strength does: frequency and intensity of use, natural ability, endurance, exhaustion. A person's raw magical power can and does change over time. All sorcerers start out at the very bottom, and they, like witches and warlocks, gain power through practice and experience.

"The weakest spellbinders are the hedgewitches and hedgewizards. This is the most common level, about fifty to fifty-five percent of all spellbinders, or at least it was before the Purge began. I suspect that the Purge caught mostly hedgewizards and hedgewitches, who were too weak to escape. More powerful spellbinders would have stood a better chance.

"Hedgebinders can perform basic magic and not much more. They can telekinetically move small and medium-sized objects, but have difficulty levitating, say, a cow. They can create small fires and control the flames to an extent. They can ward off insects and sometimes rodents. Their magic is of the simple sort, but even a hedgebinder can be dangerous if he is resourceful enough."

Arthur nodded. "Knives are small objects."

"They are," the physician agreed.

The physician's ward scowled. Really, Gaius? Did you really have to bring up danger? He really should have just gone on with harmless cantrips, wart removal and boiling water and other innocuous, innocent uses for magic. But no, he just  _had_  to bring up danger.

"Wizards form the next rank. They aren't quite as common as hedgewizards, but they still comprise about thirty-five to forty percent of the magical population. Wizards can do everything hedgebinders can do and more. They can lift larger weights, heal wounds more serious than scratches and warts, speed the growth of plants, and many other things. Edwin Muirden was a wizard. A hedgewizard could not have controlled the Elanthia beetles like he did."

Merlin glanced sideways at Arthur. The prince's lips were a thin line. His left hand clenched into a fist.

"I was also a wizard."

Leon's head snapped up. Arthur's eyes went wide, his fist unclenching.

Gaius smiled indulgently. "Did you truly think that I wouldn't speak of my own years as a sorcerer? Surely you knew that I was one."

"Well, yes," Arthur admitted, "but I don't think I've ever heard you talk about it." Leon nodded.

"It doesn't seem particularly prudent to go about reminding people what I used to be."

"A sorcerer, not a warlock," Leon murmured.

"Yes." Gaius's eyes clouded over. "If I were a warlock, I'd be dead. Uther would have killed me. He nearly had me executed anyways, and only my oath to give up magic kept my head and body attached. No, Arthur, don't look at me like that. You know it's true."

The prince flushed. "But you know it would have been to save you, right, Gaius?"

The infamous eyebrow shot straight up. "He would have saved me by chopping off my head?"

Arthur's blush deepened but he didn't back down. "From the corruption," he explained. "Magic—it's like a disease. It gets inside your soul and starts twisting it and soiling it until there's nothing left but rage and evil."

Merlin hadn't thought it was possible for Gaius to raise his eyebrow higher, but the old physician proved him wrong. "Where in the world did you get that idea?"

Arthur's lips went white. The flush left his cheeks, leaving him pale and sickly. "But that's what happens, isn't it?"

"Of course not," Gaius said. "Magic can corrupt, that is true, but so can all other forms of power. Just look at King Alined. He has power, not magic, and his corruption is practically proverbial."

"But royal power doesn't always corrupt," Arthur snapped, probably reacting to a perceived insult against his father.

Gaius smiled an odd little half-smile. "I never said it does."

Arthur's jaw went slack.

Merlin bit his lip to stop himself from grinning like a maniac.

"One more definition, I think, and then I'll dismiss class for the day. Now, where was I?"

"Wizards," Leon supplied.

"Yes, wizards. As I said, I used to be one. I was not a particularly powerful wizard, but I never wanted power. I had strength enough to bind up most surface wounds, stop a cut from bleeding, and prevent infection. I could not mend broken bones in moments, as I once saw a peer of mine do, but I could speed their healing. I could strengthen mundane remedies, make them more potent with magic. And I could have done many other things as well, but I focused mostly on healing and a little bit of self-defense, for I knew that physicians sometimes had to work on battlefields."

"That's what you used it for?" Arthur squeaked.

"For the most part, yes. I once attempted to clean the leech tank with magic, but that was something of a disaster."

"What happened?" Merlin asked.

"It's not relevant, Merlin." But there was a pink tint to Gaius's cheeks. Merlin scrawled a note on his hand:  _Ask about leeches._

"The rarest, most powerful type of spellbinder is the mage." Gaius was serious again, a calm lecturer. His eyes bored into each of them, but they lingered a bit longer on Merlin.

"Cornelius Sigan, who built this citadel, was a mage, and a powerful one. It's said he could command the tides themselves. Most mages are not quite as strong, but they can still call or banish storms, lift enormous weights, change virtually any substance into almost any other substance, and heal all but the gravest of wounds." His gaze went distant. "Some could create life itself, and only a mage can mirror life and death.

"This requires a great deal of training, of course. Most mages have to study for months before they could, say, call down lightning. But mages can also put a great deal of strength into simple, basic spells, such as creating heat. A hedgebinder could melt the snow on his roof. A wizard could melt metal. A mage could melt stone."

Yes, Merlin was quite capable of melting stone. He could probably melt the entire castle if he felt like it. He had the brute strength and the proper spell. Why he would ever want to, though, he had no idea.

"We can continue building vocabulary next lesson," Gaius said, "as I think that some of us need some time to absorb some of the information." His eyes rested on Arthur, who grimaced. He no longer looked like he was being hit repeatedly in the face by a live fish. He looked like he'd just suffered through the fish-beating and was now warily staring at his attacker, wondering if and when he would pick up the poor battered piscine again.

"Does this time work for the three of you?"

"I'm usually available," Leon replied.

"As am I," Arthur agreed.

Merlin shrugged, pointed at his employer. "I'm stuck with him, so yes, I'm free."

"Unless my stables need mucking."

"All right. I'll hurry through the stable-mucking and come to meet you in the middle of the lesson." He smirked. "I won't have time to bathe, though, and I'll be sitting next to you."

"I think Merlin just won," Leon muttered to Gaius. The physician nodded.

Arthur stood. "I have things that need doing," he proclaimed. "Merlin, come to my chambers in three hours for your evening duties. Until then, just do… whatever it is you do for Gaius."

"Okay."

"I need to get going as well. I have a meeting with Sullivan," Leon said.

"Is he going to enjoy this meeting?" Merlin asked.

"Probably not."

"Good. He really needs to take his job more seriously."

"He does," the curly-haired knight agreed. "I'll see you tomorrow, Merlin, Gaius, sire."

Arthur and Leon made their way to the door. Soon they were gone.

"I think that went rather well," Gaius declared.

"I think so too," Merlin agreed. "There's just one thing I want to know."

"What?"

"What exactly happened with that leech tank?"

* * *

Morgana ducked into an alcove as the kitchen girl passed. She and Gwen huddled there in the shadows until she was gone.

"You know what to do, right?" the lady asked.

"Yes. If anyone comes down the hall, I'm to engage them in conversation so you have time to hide." The maid patted her broomstick. "Other than that, I just need to look inconspicuous." Which she would. A servant girl sweeping the floor was practically invisible.

"Thank you."

Gwen smiled shyly. "You would do the same for me."

"I think I'd attract a bit more attention if I picked up a broom."

"Yes," Gwen chuckled, "you probably would. But you know what I mean."

"I do," Morgana confirmed.

The girls moved into place: Gwen to the end of the hallway which led to the physician's quarters, Morgana right up to the door to Gaius's chamber. She pressed her ear against the wood, hoping that she hadn't missed too much of the magic lesson.

She hadn't.

"—exactly what this was and you didn't bother to bring anything, you lazy dolt," Merlin's voice said.

Morgana relaxed. If Merlin and Arthur were bantering, then the class hadn't even started yet. She was safe.

She stayed there through the lesson, ear pressed against the door, listening as Gaius defined various types of spellbinders. She was most intrigued by a brief reference to seers, but the physician only mentioned them. He didn't give much of an explanation. Hopefully that meant he was saving it for a later lesson.

Finally the lesson was over. Morgana stuck around long enough to hear that they would be meeting at the same time next week before she made her escape.

Gwen looked up from her sweeping. "How did it go?"

"Well, I think," Morgana replied. Gaius had been a bit friendlier than expected towards magic, Arthur had had his mind blown (which was always a bonus, in her opinion), and she had picked up some good background information. "Have you ever heard of seers?"

"I think I've heard the term, but I can't recall what it means," Gwen admitted. She swept the last motes of dust into her dustpan and returned to her usual place at Morgana's side. "I would guess, though, that they can see into the future?"

"I think so," Morgana answered. "Gaius didn't define the term, but I think that you're right and seers can look into the future. "  _I think I'm one,_  she didn't need to say. "They're technically considered a type of spellbinder, even though they might never be able to cast a spell."

"Good," Gwen declared, relieved. "That is, not good that they're spellbinders, but good that they don't have any of the flashier magics."

"Some of them can," Morgana corrected. She explained what Gaius had said about witches, about how their magic manifested.

"But he also said that seers aren't necessarily witches," Gwen pointed out.

"He did," Morgana admitted, "but…."

"You're still worried."

By now, they had reached Morgana's room. The two young women sat down on her bed, leaning their backs against the posts so they faced each other. Their voices were a bit louder now that they didn't have to worry about someone coming around the corner and catching them in a discussion about magic.

"I think that my mother was a sorceress, not a witch," Morgana said. "She gave it up when the Purge started."

"Which makes you less likely to be a witch," Gwen said.

"Yes," Morgana agreed, "but it's still possible."

Gwen sighed heavily. "It is," she admitted softly, sadly, "but I don't know what we can do about that other than wait and see."

Morgana smiled sadly. "Neither do I, Gwen. Neither do I."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Arthur Pendragon is Repeatedly Slapped in the Metaphorical Face by a Large Metaphorical Fish"
> 
> Next chapter: Arthur and Merlin go hunting.


	17. Hunting for Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur investigates. Also, Merlin is there too.

Chapter XVII: Hunting for Truth

The day dawned bright and sunny, with only a few drops of dew on the grass. It was a bit cool, but the air would inevitably heat up over the next few hours. A slight breeze stirred curtains and leaves.

Merlin woke Arthur just as the sun crested the horizon. "Rise and shine, sire," he chirped.

Arthur groaned, flopping onto his stomach and burying his face in his pillow so he wouldn't have to get up. "Go away."

The words were somewhat blurred by the pillow, but Merlin knew his prince well enough to interpret them. "Oh no," he said, a hint of warning entering his tone, "you're not getting away quite that easily.  _You're_  the one who insisted on getting an early start, Arthur. I dragged myself out of my nice warm bed because you wanted to get out as soon as possible, so now I'm going to drag you out of yours."

Arthur grabbed onto the bedposts. "Try."

Merlin grabbed his prince's feet and pulled as hard as he could. Arthur tightened his grip. Merlin couldn't budge him.

The manservant, apparently reaching the same conclusion, huffed. "Very well," he sniffed, "we'll do this your way." And before Arthur's sleepy brain could comprehend that 'doing this your way' was not a good thing, Merlin pulled himself onto the bed and started jumping. "Up!" he bellowed. "Up, you lazy lump!"

Arthur got up, if only because he didn't want Merlin to jump on him. "Why did I want you to get me up again?" he grumbled.

"You wanted to go look for clues in the woods," Merlin reminded him.

He might as well have thrown a bucket of cold water over his master's head. That was right—they were going to retrace his footsteps today, look for clues about what had happened with him and Sophia and Aulfric.

And, he thought, breath quickening, with his spellbinder.

"Well, then, what are you waiting for? Help me get dressed!"

"I still think it's very sad that a grown man can't dress himself," Merlin grumbled, but he obeyed.

Within the hour, they arrived at Arthur's trail. His tracks were hardly fresh, but it hadn't rained for the last couple of days and Arthur was a good huntsman.

Arthur had been retracing his steps for half an hour when he stopped. Merlin frowned. "What happened?"

"There's another path," Arthur declared. He dropped to his hands and knees, peered intently at the ground. "Someone else was here." The prince squinted. The markings were very faint, but they were defined enough that he knew they didn't belong to him. "It looks like… someone running, but he wasn't following me."

"How can you tell?"

"Because he was going the opposite way." Arthur examined what little remained of the prints. "The tracks are too far apart for a walker unless the walker was very tall. It seems more likely that he was running. I'd guess that he was about our height, maybe a bit shorter or taller but in the same general range."

"Aulfric?" Merlin suggested.

"No." Arthur was in his element. "Aulfric was traveling with Sophia and me. This person was alone."

The runner's tracks and Arthur's followed the same path. The longer they coincided, the more certain Arthur became that his spellbinder had made the footsteps. He could imagine the situation: his spellbinder hears that the prince is missing. Somehow, either through magic or good old-fashioned investigation, he knew where Aulfric and Sophia were going, so he ran to catch up with them. Then they'd had a battle. Arthur's spellbinder won. He used the light to lead Arthur back along the same path that he'd taken to confront the other spellbinders. Then, when Arthur was closer to Camelot, he had used his knowledge of the woods to chart an alternate path for the prince to follow. But why? Had he simply been covering his tracks, gambling that no one would follow Arthur's footsteps long enough to see his own prints?

Hopefully he could get some answers.

"Arthur?"

"Yes?"

"Is there some reason that you've stopped?"

Arthur blinked and realized that he had indeed stopped. How strange. "I was inspecting the trail, Merlin."

"Um, no, you just stood there staring at nothing for about two minutes. It was kind of weird."

"I was thinking," Arthur defended.

"Did it hurt?"

The prince glared. "Careful, Merlin, or you'll be mucking the stables when we get back. Now come on."

"Um, Arthur?"

"What is it this time, Merlin?"

Merlin pointed in the direction Arthur was not going. "The tracks go that way. You just turned around."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not being ridiculous. See for yourself."

Arthur decided to humor him. He squatted, squinted at the tracks. Sure enough, Merlin was right.

The prince frowned. How had that happened? Had he really been so distracted that he'd gotten completely turned around?

Arthur turned so he was facing the right direction. He gazed off into the trees, blinking rapidly. It was hard to focus on the place ahead. The landscape turned oddly blurry, as though he were looking at it through a clouded window.

That must mean they were getting close. He recalled that the place he'd woken up was hard to focus on, its outlines smudged together. That was all he could remember of the area. He couldn't even recall if it was a grove or a clearing or a lake or a giant stone circle. Fortunately, he didn't need to remember. The tracks would lead him back.

He followed the footprints into the blurred part of the world. Dizziness assaulted him. He had to look ahead or risk falling over.

"You turned around again, Arthur."

The prince dropped to his hands and knees, glared at the tracks. Merlin was right once again. He  _had_  turned around.

"It's this place, I think," Arthur growled. "It's been enchanted to repel people."

"Then why doesn't it affect me?"

"I don't know. Maybe it only works on higher life-forms."

Merlin frowned, but there was no real heat to his glare. "Maybe I should lead."

"You can't hunt."

"I don't like to hunt," the servant corrected him. "That doesn't mean I can't track. This trail might be old, but it's still pretty clear."

Arthur weighed his options. Merlin really didn't seem affected by whatever was driving him away. Why that may be, he had absolutely idea. All he knew was that it was so. He could either let Merlin lead or turn back.

"Then lead on, oh great tracker."

"I never said I was gr—Arthur, we're going this way." For Arthur had somehow turned aside and was walking to a place somewhere to Merlin's left. The prince froze. When he turned his head, his servant was wearing a worried expression. "What, do I have to hold your hand or something?"

"You don't seem to be as affected," Arthur said, aiming for expressionlessness and missing terribly. "Are you dizzy?"

"No."

"No urges to just turn aside?"

"None whatsoever."

"It might get worse as we get closer. It might even affect you then."

Merlin untied his neckerchief and knotted it around a branch. The bright red stood out among the dark green leaves like a flag in a battlefield. "If we see this, we'll know we've turned around."

"I suppose," Arthur admitted. Then, "I'm not holding your hand, though."

"Good, because I'm not holding yours."

"Do you think it would work if I just held the back of your shirt?"

"Probably," Merlin guessed.

Arthur knew what was happening, of course. His spellbinder didn't want him to follow this trail, so he'd enchanted the land so it would keep Arthur away. Good thing his spellbinder hadn't counted on Merlin's distinctly un-servant-like tendency to tell his master off.

The prince grabbed hold of his servant's shirt. The blue fabric was coarser than he was used to, woven of wool instead of linen. It was warm from its proximity to Merlin and felt comfortingly  _real_  in the increasingly fuzzy world.

Merlin walked slowly, keeping up a constant stream of chatter to help Arthur focus. Twice he had to grab the prince's arm to keep him from wandering off. Arthur closed his eyes, but the world still spun around him.

"Stop."

The command came out almost as a whine. Arthur would have been embarrassed if his head wasn't spinning so. He collapsed onto the ground.

"Are you all right?" Merlin demanded, alarmed. His hand pressed against Arthur's forehead, searching for a fever.

And suddenly the dizziness and nausea and vertigo were gone. Arthur opened his eyes. The world was still blurry, but not sickeningly so. He grinned.

Merlin took that as his cue to remove his hand. Nausea boiled in Arthur's stomach, so sudden and strong that he retched.

"You need to be touching me."

"I'm sorry?"

"The sickness," Arthur ground out from behind clenched teeth. "It's better if we're making physical contact."

"So we really do have to hold hands," Merlin grumbled, slipping his hand into his master's. Arthur's stomach settled, his head stopped spinning, and he dared to open his eyes.

"Just so you know, Merlin, we aren't telling anyone this part of the story."

"I wasn't planning on it, Arthur. Better?"

"Yes. Just don't let go or I really will throw up."

"Noted."

Merlin led him through the trees. Arthur held onto him like the lifeline he was. Fortunately, they didn't have far to go.

The spellbinder's tracks separated from Arthur's. "Which should we follow?" Merlin asked.

"Mine."

An indentation in the ground revealed the place where Arthur had awakened. Judging from its depth, he thought that he'd been there for a while. Arthur filed that away for later reference. Perhaps he'd had to be healed and his spellbinder had done it here.

There was another indent nearby, bent grass and broken twigs revealing where someone else had fallen. From there, a set of tracks and some drag marks led from Arthur's indent to the shore of a lake. It was a beautiful body of water, clear as crystal in the morning sunlight, but looking at it, even with Merlin's help, made a strong sense of foreboding well up in Arthur's chest. He had the awful, awful feeling that he wasn't supposed to be here. Whatever this lake was, it wasn't meant for mortal eyes.

Somehow, he held himself together long enough to find a trio of footprints. Himself, Aulfric, and Sophia, he thought. They had definitely brought him here. For some reason, two of the tracks (Sophia and Aulfric? No, he had to have been one of the people going into the lake. His spellbinder had dragged him out of it, so he had to get in there somehow) entered the lake. So did his spellbinder's. He had apparently run into the lake. To fight? No, to rescue Arthur.

Then he couldn't handle it anymore. "We're leaving, Merlin," he ground out. "Come on."

He didn't quite run away, but it was a close thing. He walked rather quickly until they reached the tree with Merlin's neckerchief. "Can we stop holding hands now?" the servant asked.

"Yes."

"Good."

"Just remember, Merlin: this never happened."

"What never happened?" the servant asked innocently.

"Exactly."

"How's your head?"

"Better. I think it's because we're leaving."

"The magic didn't you want you there," Merlin murmured.

"But you didn't feel anything?"

"Um…."

"Like I said, it only works on higher life-forms."

Merlin huffed.

When they reached the area that Arthur's track's separated from his spellbinder's, Merlin continued towards the city. Arthur paused, got down on his hands and knees to examine the ground.

"Didn't we already do this?" Merlin demanded.

"I'm following the other tracks, you dolt."

Arthur didn't know what he expected to find when he retraced his spellbinder's steps. A cottage in the forest, perhaps, or a cave filled with crystals and magical who-knows-what. But the tracks just led to the road, where they blended together with other peoples' footprints. Not even Arthur could follow them then.

The prince scowled. "Merlin."

"What now?"

"These tracks don't exist."

"What?"

"We only found my footsteps. No one ran after me."

Merlin frowned. Then, oddly, he smiled. "All right."

Arthur nevertheless felt compelled to justify his decision. "If that person wanted a reward, he would have stepped forward already."

"Why do you think he didn't?"

Because he has magic, Arthur didn't say. Because even though it looks like he lives in Camelot, no spellbinder would want to explain to Uther how he'd saved Arthur from two sorcerers. Because I owe him my life twice over now and betraying him to my father would be poor thanks indeed.

But he didn't—couldn't—say any of that. Instead he shrugged. "He probably thought that no one would believe him."

Merlin stared at him with an oddly searching expression. Then his face lit up in a happy smile. "Okay, then. I won't say a thing."

Sometimes, Arthur envied his manservant. His was a simple, uncomplicated life completely bereft of sorcerers and intrigue and assassins. The most he had to worry about was waking up on time to fetch his master's breakfast.

"Let's go back," Arthur said. "I'm hungry."

"I am too," Merlin agreed.

"How fascinating."

Arthur spent most of the rest of the day practicing his swordplay and trying to make Merlin demonstrate the almost-competence he'd revealed when tackling Edwin Muirden. The boy insisted that he was only good at hand-to-hand and with whacking people with big sticks (his words, not Arthur's), but the prince remained convinced that his manservant could, if he applied himself, one day become a half-decent swordsman. Well, okay, maybe just a quarter-decent swordsman—this  _was_  Merlin, after all.

The prince was so focused on his training that he forgot all about his spellbinder. Then, as Merlin blew out the candles and Arthur lay on his bed, he remembered that strange, fey light and all its implications. There was a spellbinder looking out for him, an individual with magic who apparently lived in Camelot. He didn't know if that person was young or old, male or female, native or foreign, just that he (yes, he. Arthur could hardly refer to his helper as an  _i t_ , now, could he? And thinking of someone as he/she got tiresome very quickly) had magic and some reason to keep Arthur alive. The prince wasn't complaining—he liked living, thank you very much—but it raised dozens, hundreds of questions.

Arthur didn't fall asleep for a long, long time.

* * *

Merlin didn't wait for the dragon to land before he made his announcement. "I have good news, Kilgharrah," he exclaimed. "I'm making progress with Arthur. He actually went and asked Uther for permission to learn more about magic."

"And did the tyrant give his leave?"

"Yes! So now Gaius is teaching Arthur and Sir Leon—he's one of the knights, probably the next head knight—and me about magical theory. We have lessons each Monday evening for the foreseeable future."

"That is good news indeed, young warlock," Kilgharrah stated, folding his wings and tilting his great head to the side. "How did that come about?"

Merlin launched into the story of the Sidhe and the lake and the light. "He's trying to protect me, too, I think," the warlock concluded. "He doesn't know it's me, of course, but he doesn't want me to tell anyone about my tracks. Um, did that make any sense?"

"I understood you."

"Good."

"I have news of my own, young warlock. It took much longer than I expected, but I have finally managed to make contact with Nimueh."

"Nimueh?" Merlin asked blankly.

Kilgharrah's mouth curved. "I believe she called herself Cara when you encountered her last."

Merlin's eyes went wide. "The sorceress."

"Yes," Kilgharrah confirmed, "Nimueh of Armorica, High Priestess of the Old Religion, self-proclaimed champion of magic."

"And is she going to stop attacking Camelot?" Merlin asked.

"Perhaps."

"I thought you could be persuasive when you wanted to be?"

"I can."

"Then why—"

"She desires to meet you before making her choice."

Merlin froze, his belly turning to ice. "Meet me?"

"I would act as arbiter, of course."

"Which means what, exactly?"

"I would supervise your meeting, and if Nimueh attempts to harm or enchant you, I would stop her."

"You mean that you'd set her on fire."

"Perhaps," the dragon replied, which, coming from him, was as good as a confirmation.

"But why does she want to meet me?"

"Only Nimueh knows her own mind."

Merlin scowled. "Can't you guess?"

"I could, as could you."

"Blasted cryptic reptile," Merlin grumbled, but there was no real heat in his voice. He leaned against a tree to think. "Is it because she wants to hear my reasons for defending Camelot?"

"A bit of thought destroys the need for most questions," Kilgharrah solemnly proclaimed.

"You know what?" Merlin complained. "I think you deliberately do this just to drive me nuts."

"Would I truly do such a thing, young warlock?" the dragon asked.

"I don't know," Merlin retorted. "Only you know your own mind."

Kilgharrah laughed. "You're learning."

"Or am I?"

"You are," the dragon declared.

"If you say so," Merlin murmured, but he was smiling. Then the smile faded from his face. "So when is this meeting?"

"Right now," said a woman's voice.

Merlin jumped. He tried to turn around in midair, his head jerking to the source of the noise, but that just made him trip when he landed. He stumbled, flinging out his arms to catch himself on a tree, and only narrowly avoided falling face-first into the dirt.

The sorceress—Cara—Nimueh—smiled. She was just as lovely as Merlin remembered, but now there was a sinister cast to her prettiness. Her full lips were blood red, her hair dark like night and shadow. Even her blue, blue eyes reminded Merlin of the lake where Arthur had almost drowned. Her tattered dress would be bright crimson in the daylight; like some poisonous animal, she clothed herself in brilliance to warn the world that she was dangerous.

"This is not part of the agreement," Kilgharrah rumbled.

"The agreement was very basic," Nimueh replied. She was smiling, and that smile made the hairs on Merlin's neck stand straight up. "You said that you would try to broker a meeting between us, one that you would supervise. In return, I was to come alone and in peace, and I vowed to listen with an open mind."

"You were scrying us," Kilgharrah accused.

"Of course. I get so few visitors, but I must keep up with the world somehow." Still smiling, Nimueh turned her blue gaze to Merlin. "And here he is." The sorceress tilted her head. "You look very much like your father."

The warlock jerked. "Wha—you know my father?"

"Of course," Nimueh replied. "Balinor and I were friends once, before Uther began his killing spree. Tell me, does he still live?"

Merlin remained silent. His head spun. Nimueh knew his father, had been friends with him.

Balinor. His father's name was Balinor.

"He lives," Kilgharrah said shortly. "But we are not here to discuss Balinor Caledonensis."

Caledonensis? Balinor Caledonensis. His father had a surname.  _He_  had a surname. Merlin Caledonensis. The warlock had to stop himself from grinning like an absolute lunatic. Tense negotiations with a known enemy was not a good time for crazy smiles, no matter how tempted he was.

"True," Nimueh acknowledged, dipping her head.

"Camelot," Merlin choked out. "You've been attacking it. I know why you're doing it, but innocent people are getting hurt. That afanc—it would have killed dozens of people, not just eight. And the griffin. Did you send the griffin?"

"I may have helped guide it in this general direction," Nimueh admitted. There was no shame in her voice, no regret.

Anger surged in Merlin's breast. "It was eating people!" he cried.

"It was only meant to eat Uther."

"But it didn't," Merlin snarled. He forgot that this woman had decades of experience, a mental encyclopedia of spells, and abilities that he couldn't even imagine. He strode forward. "Your attacks hurt everyone  _except_  Uther. They're only peasants, they didn't cause the Purge and you're just making them suffer more! It's Uther you hate, not them. Leave everyone else out of it!"

"Is that your request, Merlin? Stay away from the smallfolk and carry my vendetta to Uther directly?"

"Yes! Wait, no. Just—I want him dead too. The world would be a better place. But I want magic to be free too, and if a spellbinder kills Uther, Arthur will either wait for years before ending the ban or he'll never end it at all. What's more important, Nimueh? Is it revenge? Or is it stopping the deaths and the hate and the war? Because those just aren't compatible."

The sorceress's gaze softened slightly. "You truly believe yourself," she murmured. "Oh, you foolish, naïve child, you truly think that Uther's son won't follow his footsteps."

"He won't," Merlin growled.

"We have the same goal, Merlin," Nimueh continued, ignoring the warlock's interjection. "We both want freedom, safety, peace. Why not work together to achieve it?"

"How?" the warlock demanded. "By killing and killing until we finally get Uther?"

"They aren't innocents, Merlin. They support him, enable him."

"Because they're terrified," Merlin hissed. "Maybe you don't understand that kind of fear, but I do. I grew up knowing that just one toe out of line could see me and my mother both killed. It's paralyzing, crippling, that sort of fear."

"Fear is the only reason we have courage," Nimueh replied quietly.

That pulled Merlin up short. Nimueh had sounded downright wise there, and wisdom wasn't exactly the sort of thing he expected from a person who would sacrifice every living human being in Camelot just for a shot at Uther.

When he regained his ability to speak, he said, "But they're not just afraid for themselves. Uther's been known to go after entire families if just one member has magic or supports it. You know that. These people just want their children to live."

"And I want the same for our people!" Nimueh cried.

"You think I don't?" Merlin demanded. "But you can't achieve peace by killing everyone who disagrees with you. That's what Uther does, it's why so many people want to kill him. If you keep sending afancs and man-eating griffins to Camelot, you'll be no better than he is."

He'd gone too far with that. He knew it the instant his mouth closed.

Nimueh's pretty face twisted with rage.  _"Never,_ " she snarled, "compare me to that monster."

"Then don't act like him."

The sorceress's nostrils flared. Her mouth parted, a spell bubbling to her lips.

Then Kilgharrah was there, fangs bared, fire in his golden eyes. "Would you face us both, Nimueh?"

The priestess hesitated. She took in the crouching, watchful dragon, the inexperienced but powerful young warlock. Her eyes narrowed. "Is this over, then?"

"I do believe it is," Kilgharrah growled.

Nimueh nodded, her lips pursed. "Very well then. Until we meet again, Merlin Caledonensis."

And then she was gone.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, there was actual plot development this chapter! The long-anticipated meeting with Nimueh went about as well as can be expected, and Arthur appears to be making progress.
> 
> The 'mortals can't see the Lake of Avalon' thing was never really explained (at least not that I remember). I figure that it might have had some defenses that kind of deflect anyone heading towards it (except Merlin, of course).
> 
> About Merlin's surname: Back in the fifth/sixth centuries, European didn't really have surnames unless they were royalty or high nobility. I figure that Balinor can have one, what with him coming from a family of dragonlords.As to the origin of the name, some of the legends say that Merlin went mad once and lived for years as a wild man in the Celyddon Woods, an old boreal forest in Scotland. People started calling him Myrdden Wyllt (Merlin the Wild, who is one of the historical figures on whom Geoffrey of Monmouth based his Merlin) and Merlin Caledonensis, which is Latin for "Merlin of the Celyddon." I wanted to include more of Merlin's names/titles than just Emrys, and this seemed like the best way to incorporate "Caledonensis" because I'm not sure if he's ever going anywhere near Celyddon. It also gives me a bit of a stepping-stone for his family history.
> 
> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Merlin and Arthur Hold Hands"


	18. Bloodcloaks and Balinor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin learns a bit about his family history. A new character appears.

Chapter XVIII: Bloodcloaks and Balinor

"She is gone, right?" Merlin asked. "She didn't just make herself invisible?"

"She is gone," Kilgharrah confirmed. He sat, the wariness draining from his posture. "That was not supposed to happen."

"What was supposed to happen?"

"If you were willing, I would have set up a meeting between you and Nimueh. Then, at the prearranged time and place, we would have convened for this…discussion. Perhaps things would have gone better then."

"Do you think so?"

"No, I do not believe that Nimueh would have compromised."

"And neither would I," Merlin murmured. "Not on this." He met the dragon's eyes, his own gaze pleading. "You understand, right?"

"I understand. I do not necessarily approve, but I understand."

Merlin nodded. He bit his lip, hesitated. Then he squared his shoulders. "You never told me you knew my father."

Kilgharrah looked surprised. "Of course I know him. Did he not tell you about me?"

Tears pricked at the back of Merlin's eyes. He blinked them away. "I've never met him. He had to leave before I was born. Until just now, I didn't even know his name."

"That is most uncharacteristic of Balinor, to sire a child and then abandon him."

"Mother says he didn't know she was pregnant. She didn't even know when he had to leave. I knew he was a sorcerer and that's why he had to leave, but Mother never told me anything else. She was trying to keep me safe, me and him both." He had to swallow then. "But you know him?"

"I more than knew him." Kilgharrah lowered the entirety of his huge body to the ground, tucked his tail against his side. "He is the last dragonlord, the only survivor among my kin."

"Dragonlord Balinor Caledonensis," Merlin breathed. "Ah, what exactly is a dragonlord?"

If Kilgharrah hadn't been a dragon, Merlin would have said that he gawked at the question. Since his friend was a dragon, though, he decided that Kilgharrah's reaction was merely incredulity. "You truly do not know?"

"No. I never knew him, Kilgharrah."

The dragon's tail twitched. "It is not meet that I should tell you," he growled. "That is Balinor's right, Balinor's duty."

"So you can't tell me about dragonlords," Merlin said, disappointment panging in his chest, "but… could you at least tell me about him?"

The dragon's gaze softened. "Of course. What would you like to know?"

Merlin sat, leaning against his friend's side. "Everything."

They talked through the night. Kilgharrah spoke of a brave young man struggling to balance the loss of his father with his new duties and abilities. He told of Uther's Twin Genocide, how he had lured the dragonlords and their kin with honeyed words of peace, then blown the horn Dragonbinder to paralyze them all. Then Camelot's soldiers had come in, had slaughtered even the babes in arms and pregnant women, smashed the four eggs brought as a sign of peace and murdered their parents. He explained how one dragon and one lord had been left alive, bound and chained so that they might face a public execution in Camelot as a demonstration of Uther's power.

It was Balinor who had persuaded Uther to let the last dragon live. The king had wanted to murder Kilgharrah and Balinor personally. By then, Balinor's paralysis had worn off enough so that he could speak. Reeling from the loss of his kin, afraid and devastated and probably in shock, he'd still managed to talk Uther into letting them live, into executing them in Camelot rather than killing them then and there. For where there is life, the dragon explained, there is hope. Balinor had held out hope that they would both escape, and though only one had gotten away, Uther had left Kilgharrah alive and bound with every anti-magic chain in his arsenal. Before, those chains had been used on whatever unfortunate spellbinder Uther could get his hands on. Then Uther had ordered his smiths to refashion the enchanted metal into something that could bind a dragon. He'd needed bait, Kilgharrah explained, something to entice Balinor to return.

Merlin drank in the tales like a man dying of thirst. Then, when Kilgharrah fell silent, he told his own stories.

The warlock had much less to say than the dragon, of course, but he related everything he'd ever known about his father. "I used to dream that he was a prince, that he'd gone to his home kingdom to make it safe for people like me. I had this elaborate fantasy where he came back and took Mother and me to his home and we'd all live happily ever after." The boy smiled wistfully. "I haven't believed it for years, of course, but learning the truth, that he's a dragonlord, it just reminded me of that."

Kilgharrah chuckled. "I can see why. But now, young warlock, we need to part ways."

"What?"

"Look at the horizon," Kilgharrah instructed. The eastern sky was turning indigo instead of just black. The stars there were fading, but Venus, the morning star, blazed even brighter than Sirius. "I need to depart or risk discovery, and you could do with a bit of rest before your day begins. Farewell, young warlock." He crouched, prepared to launch himself into the skies.

"Is he still alive?"

The dragon stopped.

"My father. Balinor. Do you think he's still alive?"

The dragon leaned over until his face and Merlin's were less than an inch apart. "Balinor is my kin, the brother of my heart. I do not think he is alive. I  _know_  he is. And one day, I will bring him to you."

"You will?" Merlin whispered.

"Aye," the dragon confirmed. "But now I must make haste."

"There's time enough for this," Merlin said, and wrapped his arms around the dragon's neck for a quick but heartfelt hug. "  _Thank you._ "

Kilgharrah smiled. "You are very welcome."

* * *

"I met Nimueh last night."

Gaius nearly dropped his bun. "What?"

"You know that Kilgharrah's been looking for her, right? Well, he found her last week. She told him that she wanted to meet me, so Kilgharrah told her that he'd try to set up a meeting between us with him as the supervisor. Only when he was telling me about that last night, she showed up because she was scrying us."

"Are you all right?" Gaius demanded. He stood, strode towards his ward. The boy appeared unharmed, but he wouldn't be surprised if Merlin was hiding a grave injury.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Merlin tried to assure him. "We just talked a bit. I think she might have done more, but Kilgharrah was there. He'd have stopped her if she tried anything."

Gaius finished his inspection. It seemed that Merlin had been telling the truth when he claimed he was uninjured. His fears alleviated, Gaius's mood changed from concern to anger. "What were you thinking?" he demanded.

"I had nothing to do with it," Merlin protested. "She just showed up."

Gaius grimaced. That did sound like a situation Merlin would get himself into. "What exactly happened?"

Merlin told him, going over his conversation with Nimueh in exacting detail. He knew Gaius well enough to realize that the physician would demand as much information as his ward could remember. At the end of it, the youth confessed, "I'm just glad I didn't let on that I never met my father."

"I suppose he would have left before you were born."

The warlock smiled sadly. "It's more than that. Mother didn't tell me anything about him. She didn't want me to go looking for him, you see."

"I suppose that makes sense."

"I didn't even know his name," Merlin confessed.

A lump rose in Gaius's throat. He knew that Balinor had had to leave when Hunith was less than a month along, when neither of them had known about her pregnancy. Balinor didn't even know that he had a son.

"Balinor Caledonensis," the physician said. "Balinor, for names beginning with B-A-L are traditional in that family, and Caledonensis for the Celyddon Woods up north. They have—had—a small manor there, but the family spent most of its time in Camelot."

"Kilgharrah told me that," Merlin said. "He told me all sorts of things, and he said that you and my father knew each other. Do you have any tales for me?"

The lump doubled in size. Gaius had to swallow hard before replying. "Yes, I do."

"And Kilgharrah thinks that he's still alive," Merlin added. "He says that if my father were dead, I'd be a dragonlord." The youth frowned slightly. "Though he didn't explain what exactly a dragonlord is. All I know is that they're kin to dragons, somehow, and that means they were affected by Dragonbinder." His frown deepened. "Say, what happened to it?"

"Dragonbinder, you mean?"

"Yeah."

"The horn broke after the Twin Genocide," Gaius explained. "Its remnants are in the lower vaults with the other magical objects."

"Wait." Merlin had gone rigid, his eyes wide. "What do you mean, 'with the other magical objects'?"

"Over the years, Camelot has acquired quite the collection of enchanted paraphernalia."

If Merlin's eyes grew any wider, they might just fall out of his head. "You're joking."

Gaius frowned. "Why would I be joking?"

"I don't know, because it's a terrible, terrible joke, but I really want it to be a sign of your terrible, terrible sense of humor, because that's preferable to the alternative."

Gaius's dreaded eyebrow began its ascent.

"You just told me that Uther Pendragon—Uther, the guy who likes burning people alive—has access to a bunch of highly magical objects that he's been using to kill my people."

"How else did you think he carried out the Purge?" Gaius asked, genuinely curious.

"I don't know," Merlin admitted, "but I obviously didn't realize that he had an entire vault full of things that help him kill people and imprison them and things like that."

"Well," Gaius said, "he does."

Merlin stood. "Where exactly is this vault?"

"Why do you need to know?"

Merlin didn't answer.

Gaius glared. "Tell me that you aren't thinking of stealing Uther's treasures."

"Not all of them," Merlin grumbled. "Just some of the more dangerous ones."

"You can't do that, Merlin."

"Well, if the alternative is letting Uther use them to kill more sorcerers—"

"And what do you intend to do with the items, Merlin? Hide them under your floorboard?"

"Maybe. There's still space under there, you know."

Gaius groaned. "That was not a suggestion."

Merlin scowled. "Am I just supposed to leave them there so he—"

Arthur Pendragon burst into the room. His manservant's mouth snapped shut with an audible click. His face had gone the color of old porridge; doubtless he was just as worried as Gaius was that the prince had overheard their conversation.

Fortunately, their worries proved unfounded. "Where have you been?" the prince demanded. "You were supposed to get me my breakfast!"

"Oh, right."

"You do have an actual job, Merlin. It wouldn't hurt if you did it once in a while."

"But I do."

Arthur snorted.

Gaius watched as the boys went on bantering, glad that Arthur's appearance had made Merlin forget about Dragonbinder and Uther's other highly dangerous objects, things that could kill anybody who touched them wrong and would be noticed immediately if they were to disappear.

At least, he'd forgotten them for now.

* * *

Mordred had never been to Camelot before. Quite frankly, he wished he wasn't there now.

_Stay calm. Act natural. Be brave. Don't let them suspect._

Why, oh why did it have to be Camelot? Camelot was Uther's seat of power, the base of the bloodcloaks, the place the bounty hunters went to sell their human wares. It was a beautiful city, even he had to admit it, but it was built on bone and ash, stained with the blood of people just like him.

But he and the man he called Father had to get their clan's winter supplies from  _somewhere_ , and Cerdan had a contact, a traveling merchant, who could get them those supplies. The only problem was that the merchant was in blasted Camelot.

The druid boy couldn't help but fidget as he and Cerdan waited for the bloodcloaks to let them through the gates. No, he reminded himself, it's only magic folk who call them bloodcloaks. They're guards. Think of them as guards.

"Steady," Cerdan murmured. "Let me do the talking."

"Yes, Father."

The bloodcloak—guard—ran a disinterested eye over Mordred and his father. Mordred barely kept himself still. His triskel, the sigil that marked him as a druid, prickled and burned. He reminded himself that it was safely hidden, that he had nothing to worry about.

_Stay calm. Act natural. Be brave. Don't let them suspect._

"We're here for winter supplies," Cerdan said, which was true enough.

"You and a million other peasants," grumbled the guardsman. "You do realize that the leaves haven't even turned yet, right?"

"I've seen a few yellow birches," Cerdan countered. He was light and airy and apparently completely at ease. If his jaw was a bit too tight, if the cords in his neck were too defined, then only Mordred noticed. "Besides, I'd rather get supplies too early than too late."

The guard shrugged. "You and a million other peasants," he muttered, but he waved them through.

Surprisingly, Mordred was less terrified now that they were in the monster's den. It was probably because they'd gotten past the bloodcloak without incident. Now no one was paying any attention to him and Cerdan; they were just two more peasants, two more faces in the crowd, glimpsed and quickly forgotten. But just because his terror had lessened did not mean he wasn't afraid. It was just easier to focus on his mantra now, that was all.

_Stay calm. Act natural. Be brave. Don't let them suspect._

Cerdan led his ward through the streets, ignoring vendors and shopkeepers, once twisting away from a startled pickpocket. Mordred followed as closely as he could. The city was so crowded he worried about losing Cerdan. If he and Cerdan got separated…. No, they had planned for that. All he had to do was make it back to the gate and Cerdan would find him again. There was nothing to worry about.

_Stay calm. Act natural. Be brave. Don't let them suspect._

"There he is," Cerdan said. "Do you see him, Mordred?"

"I do."

The man in question was a fellow in his middle years. He had an unremarkable face and was getting a bit soft around the middle. Mordred had passed dozens of men like him in his trek through the city.

Cerdan appeared perfectly calm. Mordred knew that his mask of serenity wasn't as good as his guardian's, but he felt like he was doing a decent job of keeping his fear under wraps. They'd made it this far, hadn't they? Now it was just a few minutes of haggling with Cerdan's friend before they could go home. The elders said that the bloodcloaks didn't pay any attention to people leaving the city unless Camelot was on lockdown. The worst part was over, so Mordred found it much easier to s _tay calm. Act natural. Be brave. Don't let them suspect._

The merchant, on the other hand, was plainly nervous. He fidgeted even worse than Mordred had at the gates, shifting his weight from foot to foot and wringing his hands. His eyes darted constantly over the crowd, scanning the mass of humanity for a familiar face. When he saw Cerdan, his eyes went wide and his entire body jerked.

Mordred could have groaned. He was just ten years old and  _he_  was doing a better job of staying calm than the merchant, who was a full-grown man. While part of him was pleased by his own acting skills, the rest was annoyed, exasperated, and anxious in equal measure. He wondered what the merchant would do if a bloodcloak came up and asked what was wrong. He'd probably break, the druid concluded sourly.

Cerdan glided through the crowd, his hand raised in greeting. His contact smiled the most painful-looking smile Mordred had ever seen and lifted his own shaking hand in response. "Cerdan. A pleasure."

"You have the supplies?" the druid asked.

"Yes," the merchant mumbled. Perspiration glimmered on his forehead, and his shirt was damp under the arms. He positively reeked of sweat.

"Easy," Cerdan murmured. "You won't attract attention if you just remain calm. If you keep this up, someone will notice."

"Someone other than us," Mordred piped up.

"Is that your ward, Cerdan?" A bead of sweat trickled down the merchant's nose, where it hung suspended.

"Yes. This is Mordred." Smiling, Cerdan placed a hand on his foster son's shoulder.

The bead of sweat was joined by another drop. Now it was heavy enough to fall onto the merchant's shirt. "I didn't know you would be bringing a child." There was something odd in his tone, something like guilt. It made Mordred's hackles rise.

_Stay calm. Act natural. Be brave. Don't let them suspect._

"I needed someone to help carry our purchases," Cerdan explained. "Speaking of which, where are they?" He patted his coin pouch. "I have more than enough money."

The merchant swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing. "I didn't bring them," he confessed.

Cerdan frowned, finally realizing that something was very wrong. "Why didn't you?" he asked.

The merchant just shook his head. "I'm sorry, Cerdan. They—I didn't know you were bringing a child!"

Mordred's blood turned to ice. He spun around, searching the crowd for a flash of color.

There they were. Four bloodcloaks, tall and armed and armored, striding purposefully towards the merchant's booth. They were looking right at the druids, so they noticed Mordred's attention right away. Their pace quickened. Their hands inched towards their swords. And one of them smiled a slow, terrible smile.

"I'm sorry," the merchant whispered.

Mordred was frozen, paralyzed, terrified. A traitor, Cerdan's contact was a traitor. He'd turned them over to the bloodcloaks, who would probably torture the camp's location out of them before they burnt. Then the bloodcloaks would gather more of their kind and march on the druids, raining down fire and arrows on every innocent man, woman, and child in the clan. They would all die.

Then Cerdan grabbed his charge's arm. He yanked, forcing Mordred to run or fall, snapping the boy out of his fear. "Run," he hissed unnecessarily.

Mordred ran.

Cerdan was still holding the boy's arm. He charged into a crowd of startled, mildly confused citizens, pushing and shoving and jostling as he tried to put as many people between himself and the bloodcloaks as possible. " _I'll distract them,"_  he said in thought-speech.  _"You need to hide in the crowd, do you understand? Keep yourself surrounded by people until you get out of the city. Then go to the camp. Don't wait for me at the meeting point, just go back."_

" _I can't leave you,"_  Mordred protested.

" _I'll be fine,"_  Cerdan promised, " _but if we stay together, we'll both die."_

"… _I understand."_

" _Good."_ Cerdan released his grip on Mordred's arm. He shoved his charge away, knocking him into a trio of alarmed shoppers.

The bloodcloaks had reached the edge of the crowd. "Step aside!" bellowed the smiling one. "King's orders. Step aside."

The crowd parted like he ordered, though whether it was out of obedience to Uther Pendragon or fear of the men waving naked steel around, Mordred didn't know. He supposed it didn't really matter.

Cerdan pushed aside the last person in his way. He broke into a dead sprint, aiming for one of the citadel's many streets. Cursing, the guards stepped out of the crowd and ran along its edges.

The man they were pursuing halted, flinging out his arms to keep his balance. He skidded a bit, then spun on his heel and made for a different street. Three seconds later, Mordred saw why. Another quartet of bloodcloaks entered the market square from the first street Cerdan had aimed for. The boy looked around frantically. Sure enough, more bloodcloaks were blocking the roads to the north and the east.

They were surrounded.

Cerdan had apparently reached the same conclusion. Eyes wide and wild, he jerked his head back and forth, searching for an exit that wasn't blocked by bloodcloaks. There wasn't one. Uther had sent in twenty of his soldiers just to kill one druid (and his ward, but they hadn't known about Mordred): sixteen to block each of the four streets that branched off of the market square, and four more to perform the actual capture.

Then the soldiers were there, their red cloaks billowing in the breeze, swords gleaming in the sunlight. The smiling one was in the lead, his teeth bared in a perverse grin.

Cerdan's face hardened. He drew himself to his full height, thrust out a hand at the rapidly approaching bloodcloaks. "  _Astrice!_ "

The bloodcloaks went flying. They crashed to the ground ten feet away, their bodies bouncing against the cobblestones.

The people of Camelot panicked. Before, they hadn't realized that Cerdan was a sorcerer. Now they knew that they were in the middle of a sorcerer-against-guardsmen duel to the death—perhaps  _their_ death. One man without magic could be apprehended by twenty trained guards without doing harm to the bystanders. Give him a few spells, though, and sticking around to watch the show suddenly became a lot more dangerous.

The crowd surged towards the nearest exit. Mordred, caught up in the rush, had no choice but to go with them. The four guardsmen in the mob's path, not wanting to be trampled, lunged out of the way.

Hope surged in Mordred's chest. He was going to make it. He was five feet—four—three—two—one.

He burst out onto the street, a smile rising to his lips. He was safe and the bloodcloaks' barricade had been broken. If Cerdan was quick and clever, he would be able to follow the mob before the four men it had forced aside could get back into position.

Then someone grabbed Mordred's arm, nearly wrenching it from its socket. "Guards!" the boy's captor screamed. "He's with the sorcerer!"

The guards turned. Mordred ducked his head, instinctively hiding his face. He stomped down on his captor's foot with all the strength he could muster. Yelping, the man released him.

Mordred ran.

He had always been a quick boy, swift and agile, but he was just that—a boy. The men behind him were men, with long adult legs and greater speed. They had other advantages, too. Mordred had never been in Camelot before, but they knew the city well. Mordred had to push people aside, but everyone got out of the bloodcloaks' way. Even worse, an awful stitch was growing in his side. He was sprinting full-out. His lungs burned, his legs felt like jelly, his throat was dry and raw.

In short, he was losing ground. Another two minutes and they would have him.

" _Help me! Please, somebody help me!_ " Mordred silently screamed. He threw the words into the ether, not caring if they reached Cerdan or some random hedgewitch just so long as they reached  _somebody_.

" _Oh, Mordred,"_  Cerdan whispered in his mind, " _I'm sorry. May the gods go with you._ "

No. No no no no no. That didn't mean what he thought it mean. Cerdan wasn't going to die. He was going to escape and get back to the druids and, and—

A man screamed for three long, agonizing heartbeats. Cerdan was in pain. Then his scream stopped.

_No._

" _Goodbye, Mordred._ "

The guards were getting closer. Cerdan was dead. Barring some sort of miracle, Mordred was doomed.

" _Someone!"_ he cried. " _Anyone! They're going to kill me!"_

An unfamiliar presence blossomed in Mordred's mind. It crackled with power, but there was a warmth in it, too. It was the sun and the storm, a herald's horn and the endless sky and the strong stability of a mountain. It was a falcon's eyes and a babbling brook and molten gold, and most of all, it was hope.

" _No,_ " said the golden presence, " _they will not."_

And Mordred dared to hope again.

The bloodcloak nearest to him put on a burst of speed. He lunged, his fingers grasping at Mordred's cloak.

The druid boy swerved. His pursuers were larger and heavier than he was; they couldn't turn as quickly. His maneuver bought him a few seconds, but that wasn't enough.

" _Hurry!_ " the boy silently screamed. Out loud, he panted a spell. " _Scildan!"_

His shield wasn't particularly strong, but it crafted well enough. The guardsmen slammed into the faintly shimmering barrier. They bounced back, two falling flat onto their backs. The shield flared green and cracked. Another charge would break it, and even if it somehow held, it was only a few feet wide. The bloodcloaks could easily go around it. But for the moment, it was the only defense Mordred had, so he pumped magic into it as he churned his legs faster and faster in one last desperate burst of speed.

The druid boy expected the bloodcloaks to do the smart thing, to walk around a barrier only a few feet in width and finally capture their fleeing prey. Fortunately for Mordred, though, these were Camelot's guards. With a few (okay, maybe just the one) exceptions, they were completely incompetent. Instead of going three feet to their left, as any sensible person would do, they charged into the shield. It blazed green. Cracks spiderwebbed through it like forks of green lightning, but somehow, some way, it held.

"Again!" bellowed one of the bloodcloaks. He and his comrades slammed once more into the green barrier, which shattered and disappeared.

But the short-lived shield had fulfilled its purpose. Mordred had managed to slip around a corner. He scanned the street for a place to hide. This one wasn't so crowded, so maybe no one would see him. Okay, that was asking a bit much, but—

Someone grabbed his arm, jerking him to a stop.

Mordred yelped, twisted, struggled, but his captor didn't release him. Instead, he said, " _Don't worry. I've got you._ "

The druid boy froze. He hadn't heard those words with his ears. He'd heard them with his mind.

Mordred looked up.

The man was tall and slender, with a mop of messy black hair and sharp, angular features. His eyes were bright gold, and his presence in Mordred's mind was bright gold, too.

" _You're safe now,_ " the man—the warlock—said.

" _But I'm not,"_  Mordred protested. " _The guards will be here any second."_

The man grinned.  _"Look around us."_

Confused, Mordred obeyed. And gasped.

It was like he had stepped into a painting. Everything was completely still. Men and women were frozen in midstride. Two children were wrestling, their bodies trapped in an unnatural pose. A few pigeons hovered in midair.

"You stopped time," Mordred whispered.

And he knew,  _knew_ who this must be.

"Yes, but I can only keep it this way for a few more minutes," his savior said. "Just come with me."

"I will," Mordred vowed. He would follow this man to the end of the earth.

The man led him through the cobbled streets into an alley. "Give me your cloak," he ordered. Mordred obediently removed it. His rescuer shoved it into a basket of dirty laundry that had inexplicably been waiting there and pulled out a scrap of red cloth, which he tied around the druid's neck. "I'm going to release the spell now, okay? But don't be afraid."

"I won't be," Mordred replied. And he wasn't. He knew that Emrys would keep him safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any guesses where I got the idea (okay, shamelessly stole) Dragonbinder?
> 
> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein the Guardsmen of Camelot Fail in Their Duties Yet Again, Prompting Everyone to Wonder Why on Earth Poor Lancelot Puts up with Them"
> 
> -Antares


	19. The Druid Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The best place to hide is in plain sight.

Chapter XIX: The Druid Boy

Merlin was on his way to the laundry room when he heard the voice. Well, perhaps 'heard' wasn't the right term for it. His mind perceived the plea, not his ears.

" _Help me! Please, somebody help me!_ "

Merlin's heart leapt in his chest. He jumped, nearly scattering the contents of the laundry basket in his arms all over the courtyard. For one wild moment he wondered if Kilgharrah had come, but a second later he chided himself for being so stupid. This voice definitely did not belong to the dragon; a voice less like Kilgharrah's could hardly be imagined. Where the dragon was old and wise and serene, this speaker was young and frightened and desperate.

He was just a little child, and he was completely terrified. But where was he?

Fortunately, the boy chose that moment to cry out again, allowing Merlin to pinpoint at least his general direction. " _Someone! Anyone! They're going to kill me!"_

" _No,_ " Merlin growled, turning in the direction of the silent voice, " _they will not."_  He strode towards the child.

" _Hurry!_ " the boy cried, and then he was silent.

Merlin was already almost jogging. At the child's cry, he abandoned the laundry basket in an alley and broke into a run.

There was a clamor of some sort up ahead. Merlin heard the rattling of armor and a crashing noise. "Again!" a man's voice bellowed. There was another crash. Something shattered.

Merlin turned the corner. A young boy in a teal cloak was sprinting down the street. His face was red with exertion and glistening with sweat. He couldn't hold up much longer. Several buildings down, a soldier in the red cloak of a Camelot guardsman darted into the open.

The warlock weighed his options. The guard and the boy he was pursuing were both in plain sight. It wouldn't take the guard long to catch the tired boy, so he couldn't hope that the child would outrun him. He either had to fight, thereby revealing his magic to half the city, or find some way to make the boy disappear into thin air.

Merlin chose the option with fewer potential fatalities. Sucking in a deep breath, he stepped outside of time.

The world froze. The wind died down. Conversation stopped. Hunter and hunted floated in midair.

The warlock froze, eyes going wide. This is… new. Normally, he could only make things slow down. They would still move, but it was like they were moving through thick jelly. Now, though, everyone and everything was completely still, completely stunned. He hadn't just slowed time. He had stopped it.

He was getting stronger.

Merlin shivered at the thought. His own strength scared him sometimes, though it was a source of secret pride as well. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about getting stronger.

But now was not the time for introspection. He didn't know how long he could maintain the spell even with his new strength, and he had a little boy to rescue.

The warlock jogged over to the frozen child. Hoping and praying that what he was about to attempt would work, Merlin grabbed the boy's arm and pulled him outside of time.

The boy jerked into motion, zooming on ahead. Merlin tightened his grip on the child's arm, stopping him before he got too far. The child, not realizing that his new captor was a friend, cried out. He struggled against Merlin's grip, twisting and thrashing and doing everything in his power to escape.

" _Don't worry. I've got you._ " Merlin spoke with his mind, not with his voice. It was another drain on his rapidly diminishing magic, but speaking to the child with magic seemed like the best way to convince him he was safe. Sure enough, the child ceased his struggles. He looked up.

" _You're safe now,_ " Merlin assured him, not moving his lips.

" _But I'm not,_ " the child protested. " _The guards will be here any second._ "

Merlin couldn't help it. He grinned. " _Look around."_

The child looked around, taking in the silent, frozen street. He gasped, his eyes bulging. " _You stopped time._ "

"Yes," Merlin said aloud, "but I can only keep it this way for a few more minutes." The thought-speech was already giving him a headache, and he could feel the universe trying to speed up. It was like trying to hold water in his hands. He couldn't keep this up much longer. "Just come with me."

The boy didn't hesitate. "I will."

Merlin kept hold of the boy's hand as he led him through the street. It was a bit awkward, but he didn't know if he could keep his new charge outside of time without physical contact. Even if he could, it would be difficult and draining. He was tiring rapidly. When they reached the alleyway where he had abandoned the laundry basket, he wanted nothing more than to release his hold on the world. But he couldn't, not until he had completed the boy's disguise.

The child was tall for his age and slender, with dark hair, pale skin, and light eyes. He looked a bit like Merlin, and the warlock fully intended to capitalize on that.

"Give me your cloak," the warlock ordered. The child obeyed. Merlin stuffed the teal cloth into the laundry basket, making sure to cover it with as many of his and Gaius and Arthur's clothes as possible. He took out one of his neckerchiefs, a red one that wasn't too dirty, and quickly tied it around the lad's neck.

And then he couldn't hold it any longer. "I'm going to release the spell now, okay? But don't be afraid."

"I won't be," the child replied.

Merlin nearly cried with relief as he released the spell. His head pounded and spun, making it very difficult to remain upright. He staggered, might have fallen if the child hadn't caught him. The boy helped him onto the ground, where he sat with his back slumped against the wall.

"Sorry about that," the warlock said once he had caught his breath. "I've never done that before. Not the stepping out of time thing, I've been doing that for years. But this is the first time I did it for two people at once."

He thought back to how he had saved Gaius, how he'd slowed time all around him—or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he'd sped himself up. He really didn't know. Gaius said that there had been spellbinders who could step outside of time, but they were so rare that he had only a few scattered, cryptic references to how they did it. Cornelius Sigan had been one, as had the legendary Fisher King of lost Listeneise, but their grimoires (assuming they had any) weren't in Camelot.

"So here's the plan," Merlin continued. "If anyone asks, you're my little brother. You're here in Camelot without our mother because—er—because you had a fight with her and ran away from home. It is nothing but an unfortunate coincidence that you arrived here the same day Uther decided to send his guards after an innocent child."

The boy stared at him, eyes huge, before jerking his head in a nod.

"My name's Merlin. You should probably know that, us being brothers and all. We're from a little village in Essetir. It's called Ealdor. Our mother's name is Hunith. What's yours?"

"My mother's name?" The child sounded confused.

"No, your name."

"Mordred," the boy said.

"So you can stay with me and Gaius—he's my great-uncle—for the evening, and tomorrow I'll take a couple days off to bring my brother home. Once we're out of the city, I can either bring you to Ealdor or find your real relatives. How does that plan sound?"

"It's good," the boy agreed, "but what about Cerdan?"

Merlin's blood turned to ice. "Cerdan?"

"My foster father," Mordred explained. "We were here to get supplies for winter. Then the bloodcloaks…."

Merlin could have kicked himself. Of  _course_  this kid had family. Of  _course_  he wasn't wandering through Camelot alone. "I—I don't know. Could you call to him like you did with me? I'd do it myself, but I think that time spell is giving me a migraine."

Mordred nodded. " _Cerdan,_ " he cried silently,  _"Father. Where are you?"_

Pigeons cooed. Voices chatted. The two young warlocks inhaled and exhaled, inhaled and exhaled. Yet though the physical world was full of noise, they heard nothing with their minds.

" _Cerdan?"_  Mordred called again. " _Cerdan, please talk to me. Please."_

But there was no response but silence.

"He could just be unconscious," Merlin offered, knowing exactly how unlikely that was.

Mordred's pale eyes had gone dull and lifeless. "He could be," the boy mumbled.

"If there is anything I can do, I will do it," Merlin vowed.

Life sparked in Mordred's eyes. "Thank you, Emrys," he whispered.

_Emrys._

The name sent shivers coursing through Merlin's veins. Emrys, Ambrosius. Both words had similar effects on him, both were his his his on a level that he had trouble comprehending, but  _this_  name was even  _more_  than Ambrosius. It felt right, like coming home, like saving a life and seeing Arthur question his father's hate and knowing in his marrow that  _this_  is what he'd been born for.

"Why did you call me that?" he asked, blinking the gold from his eyes.

The boy was surprised. "Because there is no one else you can be."

"You'll have to explain that when we're out of the open," Merlin muttered. He forced himself to his feet. He was still a bit dizzy, yes, but he thought he could hear a guard's voice barking questions. "Come on."

"Where are we going?" Mordred asked, walking by Merlin's side.

"The court physician's chambers. I'm sort of his apprentice. Of course, I'm also Arthur's—ah, the prince's—manservant and protector."

Mordred's brow creased. "Arthur Pendragon?"

"The one and only."

" _He_  is the Once and Future King?"

Merlin smiled at the incredulity in his 'brother's' voice. "That was my first reaction too. I asked Kilgharrah—he's a dragon, the one who told me about Arthur's destiny—if he was sure that he had the right Arthur, because this one is an absolute  _idiot_. We'd gotten off on the wrong foot, you see, and when Kilgharrah told me that Uther's dolt of a son would save magic I told him that I'd be more likely to help kill Arthur than to protect him."

"What changed?"

"I saved his life."

"But… you're certain now?"

He had to be certain. If Arthur didn't restore magic, then Merlin's sacrifices would mean nothing. Admittedly, he hadn't sacrificed a great deal yet, but he'd still betrayed a sorcerer to death and made an enemy of Nimueh, and he had the feeling that he'd have to sacrifice a great deal more in the future. The more he invested in Arthur, the more he  _had_ to ensure magic's freedom.

But Mordred didn't need to hear about the doubts that sometimes kept Merlin awake. He needed certainty and strength and safety, and Merlin had already bungled things by almost fainting after he released the time spell. "Yes. I'm certain. He still needs work, but he has the potential to become a great king."

"'And the son shall repent of the sins of his father, quenching the flames and dispelling the smoke into the breeze.'" Mordred nodded solemnly. "It makes sense, then, that it would be Uther Pendragon's son."

"Yes," Merlin agreed, even though he had no idea what the younger warlock was talking about. He would have to ask Gaius or Kilgharrah.

The servant led his charge into the castle courtyard. "Just act casual," he muttered under his breath. "Remember, you're a country boy in the city for the first time in his life. Mordred of Ealdor, son of Hunith, my brother. Okay?"

"Stay calm," Mordred murmured. "Act natural. Be brave. Don't let them suspect."

"Exactly."

A quartet of guards trotted into the square. Mordred stiffened.

"Keep going," Merlin whispered. He plastered a smile onto his face and gave the guards a wave. One of them, an older man, nodded his acknowledgement.

The warlocks entered the castle. "We're almost there," Merlin assured his charge. "Two minutes at the most."

Uther and Arthur Pendragon rounded the corner.

_Oh, no._

This was, Merlin decided, probably the worst thing that could have happened to them. He glanced at Mordred, was surprised and confused at the boy's lack of reaction. Why would—oh, of course. He had never seen the king or prince before. He didn't know who these men were. They were obviously high-ranking, anyone could tell that by looking at their clothes, but Uther wasn't wearing his crown.

Merlin dipped his head into a short bow. He tugged at Mordred's sleeve until the boy did likewise. The Pendragons passed without saying a word.

"Who were they?" Mordred asked as the king and prince retreated.

Fortunately, Merlin was saved from answering by the fortuitous arrival of Guinevere. "Hello, Merlin," she said. "Who's your friend?"

"This is my brother Mordred."

Gwen frowned at him. "You don't have a brother."

Merlin forced himself to smile. "Where did you get that idea?"

"You told me so yourself."

"Well, that was a long time ago. Maybe your memory's gotten fuzzy."

Gwen was incredulous. "It was  _yesterday._ I was telling you another story about Elyan and you said you wished you had siblings so you could tell stories of your own."

"Oh." He'd been hoping that she wouldn't remember that. "Right."

"So who is he?"

Merlin hesitated. His thoughts raced. Every instinct screamed at him to keep Mordred's secret, to keep the magic hidden, but…. This was Gwen. Gwen, who had helped save him from Nimueh's poison. Gwen, who loved picking flowers and leaving bouquets around the castle. Gwen, who helped Gaius with his healing whenever she had the time and had tended so many during the afanc plague.

Gwen, who was highly unlikely to fall for any more lies.

"Uther wants him dead," the warlock finally confessed. He kept his voice low, so soft that Gwen had to lean over to hear him. "He's just a little child, but there are guards chasing him and they'll kill him if they find him. Please, Gwen, play along."

The maid's brown eyes were very wide. So were Mordred's, though for a very different reason.

"Why?" Gwen finally asked. "Not 'why should I keep this secret,' of course, but why does Uther…."

That was a good question, actually. Merlin had been so busy saving Mordred that he hadn't asked for a backstory. He and Gwen looked expectantly at the youth.

"I'm a druid," Mordred whispered. "He wants me dead because I'm a druid." Tears glistened in his eyes. "We were just getting winter supplies. We weren't going to hurt anybody."

"We?" Gwen repeated.

Mordred blinked. Twin teardrops rolled down his face. "Cerdan. My foster father. He told me to hide in the crowd and get away while he distracted the bloodcloaks. But now I don't know what happened to him." The boy swallowed hard.

"Oh," whispered Gwen. "Oh, you poor thing. Of course I'll keep you safe." In a louder voice, she asked, "So, Mordred, when did you get to Camelot? I think I might have seen you last night."

Merlin beamed. "I think Gaius saw him here last night too."

"Yes," Mordred agreed, catching on immediately, "because I arrived here last night."

"It was pretty late," Merlin decided, "and once you got here, we spent a lot of time talking. I didn't mention you to Arthur because I was so tired from our conversation. And my insomnia. I have pretty bad insomnia, you know. But when it was time for me to get up, you were still sleeping. You tracked me down when I was getting ready to do laundry."

"Did any of the guards get a good look at your face?" Gwen asked, dropping her voice again.

"I don't think so," Mordred murmured. "It was mostly my cloak, I think."

"It's in here," Merlin explained, patting the laundry basket. "I have to hide it in my room before dropping the laundry off."

"No, Merlin, you forgot something in your room," Gwen corrected him. "That's why you have to go back."

"You're absolutely right. How silly of me to forget." He hefted the basket. "I think we have to get going now. That thing I forgot won't just magically appear."

Gwen and Mordred both winced at the mention of magic, but they recovered quickly. "Yes, that's probably a good idea," Gwen decided. "Let me know if you need any help."

Merlin smiled. Wonderful, wonderful Gwen. "I will. Thank you."

"Yes," Mordred said, his eyes still bright but no longer moist, "thank you."

"You're welcome."

Merlin led his new 'brother' into the physician's quarters. Gaius was mixing some horribly smelly concoction and looked rather relieved by the brief interruption. His relief was short-lived, however, for his eyebrow began its dreaded ascent as soon as he noticed Mordred. "What happened?"

His apprentice shut the door. He didn't want anyone to come in and overhear. "This is Mordred," he explained quietly. "Uther wants him dead because he's a druid, so I'm pretending he's my brother until I can get him out of Camelot. Can you pretend that he arrived here last night?"

Gaius sighed heavily. "Of course I will, Merlin. So why has your brother come to Camelot?"

"To bring him home," Mordred declared. "I missed my big brother, so I came all this way to bring him home."

Merlin had been about to say something about a fight with Hunith, but he liked this excuse better. "Yes, that's it. So we're agreed?"

"Did he arrive before or after dinner?" Gaius asked. "We supped with Lancelot, as you might recall."

"A bit before, I think," Merlin decided. They hadn't had any patients after their meal, so no one would be able to say otherwise. To Mordred, he explained, "Lancelot is my closest friend here in Camelot. He and Gaius are the only ones who know about my magic. Gwen doesn't know what I am, but she has a good heart. She's not going to betray us. Lancelot won't either. He'll help cover for us. Can you stay here with Gaius for a bit? Maybe cut herbs or something. I have to get the laundry out, and I'll look for information about Cerdan too, okay?" He tossed Gaius Mordred's teal cloak. "Can you hide this under my floorboard?"

"Will it fit?"

"It should. It hits my book and the Sidhe staff well enough."

"Take medicine with you," Mordred said suddenly. "Cerdan… Cerdan might be hurt." He shuddered. "I heard him scream."

"Cerdan?" Gaius asked softly.

"My foster father," Mordred whispered.

Merlin hid a painkiller in his neckerchief. "I'll find out what happened to him, Mordred. I promise."

The boy forced a weak smile. "Thank you."

Laundry basket in hand, Merlin strode through the halls. He meandered, taking his time, slowing down to eavesdrop on the conversations around him in the hopes that they would mention Cerdan. They didn't, so he resumed his previous pace and moved on.

Once he'd dropped the laundry off, he went to find Gwen. He didn't doubt that she, too, had been keeping an ear out for information on Mordred's foster father. He didn't succeed. On the plus side, though, he didn't run into Arthur, who would have undoubtedly given him a long list of menial tasks.

" _Emrys!_ " Mordred's voice wailed in his head. The boy sounded close to tears.

" _Yes?_ " Merlin sent back. He picked up his pace, making a beeline for the physician's quarters. Mordred didn't respond.

When Merlin arrived at Gaius's door, he learned why he hadn't found Gwen. She was already there, holding Mordred close as he sobbed into her shoulder. Gaius looked even more grave than normal.

"What happened?" Merlin asked softly, though he already knew the answer.

Gwen met his eyes. "Cerdan is dead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Two Warlocks Walk Right Past the Magic-Hating King of Camelot, and He Doesn't Even Bat an Eye"


	20. Mordred's Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pretty much what it says on the tin, folks.

Chapter XX: Mordred's Escape

Truth be told, Arthur was relieved that his men hadn't found any sign of the druid boy. He still remembered that day years ago—had it truly been so long?—when his first raid had turned into a massacre. He had nightmares about it sometimes, though they weren't anywhere near as bad as they had been. No doubt capturing this druid boy would have given him some nasty dreams.

But that wasn't the only or even the main reason he was so relieved. Druids were peaceful folk, everybody knew that. If the boy had been training with the Catha, then yes, Uther's… extreme… reaction would have been more justified. But this was a druid, and a child druid at that, and he didn't deserve to die.

He knew quite well that they weren't going to find the child. The boy had disappeared in front of dozens of witnesses. Whether he had teleported away or simply turned himself invisible, no one knew, and Arthur really didn't care. If the child had any brains at all, he was miles away from Camelot.

Still, his father was rather… put out… by the boy's escape, so Arthur organized a search. He had the gates shut, their guard doubled. He sent men to look in peoples' homes and shops. He chastised the guards who had let the boy escape (though not very passionately. While it was somewhat embarrassing that his guardsmen had been outfoxed by a child, at least this way the boy survived).

So when it was time for bed, he flopped onto his mattress with a soft groan, worn out from a hunt that he knew was pointless. Honestly, the boy could teleport. There was no bloody way he was still in Camelot.

"Tired?" Merlin asked.

"A bit," Arthur grumbled.

"Any sign of the druid boy?"

"None whatsoever."

"Good."

Arthur looked up, frowned. He felt the same way, but he wasn't fool enough to say it out loud. "You realize that that's treason?"

"He was just a boy, Arthur, and a druid too. Everyone knows that druids are peaceful. And what did he do, anyway, to get the guards running after him?"

"We caught a sympathizer who was planning to sell winter supplies to the druids. Sullivan arranged a sort of sting operation to catch the druid as well. We only expected the one, you see, the adult." Arthur sighed. "I don't think anyone anticipated a child's presence."

"So he was basically in the wrong place at the wrong time," Merlin concluded.

"Basically," Arthur confirmed.

"I wonder if he was born a druid," Merlin went on. "If his mother and father were druids. Then he'd have been born into it."

Arthur had wondered the same thing. "Shut up, Merlin," he growled. "I'm tired of listening to you."

"Then you'll be pleased to hear that I'm taking a week off, starting tomorrow."

The prince jerked up. "What?"

"Mordred showed up last night," Merlin explained. "He came to visit me, it seems, except he left without telling Mother, so he has to go back as soon as possible, and I can hardly let him walk all the way back to Ealdor by himself, now, could I?"

"Who's Mordred?"

Merlin looked at Arthur in a way that clearly questioned the older youth's intelligence. "Mordred. You know, my little brother?"

"You have a brother?"

"Um,  _yeah._  Did you really not know that?"

He hadn't. "You prattle so much that I just let it in one ear and out the other."

Merlin appeared to be very offended. "Well, like I was saying, I have to take the week off to bring Mordred back to Ealdor."

"Can't your mother or father do that?"

"They're not here," Merlin replied. "Mordred missed me and I think he had a fight with them, but he's not saying, so he came here alone. He walked almost three days alone, a small child going through the bandit-infested forest. You really need to do something about all those bandits, you know. But my point is, Mordred got lucky on his way here. I have to go back with him to keep him safe."

Arthur arched a brow.

"What?"

" _You_  are going to keep him safe?"

"Well, yes."

"You.  _You_  are going to keep him safe."

"I find this very insulting."

"You should send a knight or a soldier to bring him back."

"Hey, I got from Ealdor to Camelot just fine."

"Take a guardsman at the very least. That's an order, Merlin."

Merlin glared, huffed. "Lancelot's coming too," he finally admitted.

"I'm surprised Sullivan gave him permission."

"He didn't," Merlin said softly. "Lancelot quit the guard."

"What?" Arthur's head snapped around. "But he's the only competent guardsman in the kingdom!"

"I know," Merlin agreed. His shoulders slumped. "I think that's part of why he's leaving. He's the only one who cares about his job, even if he has this stupid idea that he failed you with Sophia and Aulfric. He's told me time and time again that he's so sick and tired of carrying not only his own weight, but everyone else's as well. And you know what, Arthur? I think he would have kept on carrying all that weight for the rest of his life if it hadn't been for the druids."

The prince frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You know Lancelot wanted to be a knight, right? Well, he wanted to be a knight so he could protect people. Chivalry, honor, keeping the innocent safe, that sort of stuff. But then he learned about this huge mission to capture a man who was just buying his winter supplies. He wasn't part of the mission because Sullivan is—was—still keeping him on the night shift, but he heard about how they went after the little boy. He wants to help little boys and girls, not chase them through the streets of Camelot."

"They were druids," Arthur mumbled. There was a strangely hollow feeling in his chest. He would miss Lancelot, he realized. They didn't spend much time together, but it had been comforting to know that one of Sullivan's men cared about guarding the castle, and he had a great deal of respect for the guard's honor and idealism.

"Druids need to eat too."

Arthur grimaced. Once again, Merlin was reflecting his own thoughts, the ones that haunted him as he tossed and turned at night. They were druids, pacifists; they weren't doing anything wrong, just getting their supplies; the younger one was just a child. He didn't like to think about that sort of thing, though he usually couldn't banish the thoughts when they reared their ugly heads.

Distraction worked sometimes. With that in mind, Arthur changed the subject. "So what's Lancelot going to do now?"

"I don't know," Merlin admitted, chewing his lip. "He doesn't know either."

"I could help him find work," Arthur said. "Father has some men searching for hidden caverns beneath the citadel. There's old legends about caches of hidden treasure."

"He's not staying in Camelot."

"What?" Arthur had been on his way out the door; he had time for an hour or so of training before he had to fulfill his other duties. When Merlin spoke, though, the prince paused in mid-step, his hand resting atop the doorknob.

"I said that he's not staying in Camelot," Merlin repeated.

"Yes, I heard you," Arthur growled. "But  _why_?"

"Well," the manservant explained, "Lancelot made it pretty clear that he was resigning in protest of how guardsmen hunt little kids, even if those little kids are druids."

"So?" Arthur demanded.

Merlin's expression indicated that he thought his prince was an utter idiot. "He displayed sympathy for one of your father's enemies," the manservant explained, as slowly as he would to a child. "Do you really think that Camelot is safe for a man who spoke against the king?"

Arthur bristled. "My father isn't going to—"

"Isn't he?" Merlin sneered. "Can you promise that Lancelot won't be harmed next time Uther goes on one of his witch hunts?"

"My father is just trying to protect his people," Arthur growled. His stomach clenched.

"If you say so, sire," Merlin replied coolly.

His coolness remained in place for the rest of the day, which essentially meant that he acted like a proper servant. A few months ago, Arthur would have been relieved by Merlin's change in behavior. Now, though, he just thought it downright unnatural.

The chill only abated when Arthur walked with him to the physician's chambers, fully intent on meeting Mordred. Merlin smiled slightly when Arthur mentioned wanting to meet his little brother, and the prince knew that his servant would be back to normal by the morrow. Except, he reminded himself, that didn't really matter, because Merlin had to leave in the morning and wouldn't be back for a week.

Mordred wasn't the only person in Gaius's chambers. Though the physician was gone, Morgana and Guinevere were sitting at a table talking with Merlin's brother. Guinevere inclined her head when the prince entered, as did the dark-haired boy who must be Mordred, but Morgana's acknowledgement consisted of gesturing for them to sit.

"Mordred, this is the princely prat himself, Arthur Pendragon," Merlin announced, sliding into his chair. "Arthur, this is Mordred."

"A pleasure to meet you," Mordred mumbled. He seemed like a shy child, not at all like his brash brother.

"No, it isn't," Morgana informed him. Merlin laughed.

"You're going to need an extra horse, Merlin," Guinevere said.

"Why does he need an extra horse?" Arthur asked.

"Lady Morgana bought winter supplies for us," Mordred explained. "We need another horse to carry them."

Merlin's eyes went wide. "You didn't have to," he began.

Morgana waved a dismissive hand. "I wanted to," she declared.

"Thank you," Merlin said softly. "If there's anything I can do to repay you, just let me know."

"That's not necessary."

"Neither was buying Ealdor's winter supplies."

Morgana smiled. "It's a better use of Crown funds than hunting little kids." Her smile degenerated into a glare.

Arthur flung up his hands. "Do you think I  _want_  the druid boy to die?" he demanded.

"Do you?"

"Of course not!" the prince hissed. "But regardless of my feelings, Father is my king and I must obey him. Don't worry, though," he added. "The druid boy disappeared into thin air. He's probably halfway to Carmarthen by now."

"Yes," Merlin agreed. "Yes, I'm sure he is. Carmarthen or Londinium or maybe even Rome, but he's definitely not anywhere around here."

"Definitely," Mordred chimed in.

"That's the only reason I'm having the guards search so thoroughly," Arthur explained. "They have no chance of finding him, but the gods know they need as much practice as they can get, especially with Lancelot leaving."

Guinevere winced at that. Arthur grimaced. That's right, she and Lancelot were close. Perhaps, if the guard had chosen to stay, they would have married one day.

"I am sorry, Guinevere," he said awkwardly. Morgana laid a hand on her maid's shoulder. "I know you care for him."

Guinevere smiled sadly. "I understand why he's leaving, of course," she confessed. "If he remained part of a guard that hunts children, he wouldn't be Lancelot anymore. Perhaps he'll be back someday."

"Maybe Bayard or someone will knight him," Merlin suggested.

"Maybe," Arthur said, doubting it. "Where's he going, do you know? Merlin doesn't."

"I don't think Lancelot knows," Merlin reminded him. "First he's escorting Mordred and me to Ealdor, then…. I don't know. Hopefully someplace he can be happy." The manservant brightened. "Maybe he'll run into Elyan."

"Who?" Arthur asked.

"My brother," Guinevere explained. "He and Dad had a row a couple years ago, and Elyan left the next day."

"I'm sorry," Arthur said politely. "I hope he returns one day."

"We do too," Guinevere sighed. "But thank you."

With the pleasantries out of the way, they returned to the topic of Lancelot and Ealdor. "So no one knows where he's going?" Arthur repeated.

"No one knows," Merlin confirmed. "Perhaps he'll stay in Ealdor for a bit. Mother would like that, I think. I'm worried she's getting lonely without me."

"She isn't," Mordred said quickly. "Mother has me too, remember?"

"Right, right," Merlin agreed, speaking just as quickly. "And speaking of the journey, shouldn't we start getting ready? I mean, just us, of course. Lancelot has to pack on his own."

"Yes," Mordred declared. "We probably should."

"Bye, Arthur!" Merlin exclaimed, rising and pushing his master towards the door. "Bye, Morgana, Gwen. We'll see you tomorrow and say goodbye again." And he shut the door behind them.

Morgana, Gwen, and Arthur stared at each other. "He does realize he's not supposed to do that, right?" Morgana asked.

Arthur snorted. "Since when has Merlin ever cared about what he's supposed to do?"

* * *

"You're certain that they haven't moved on?" Lancelot asked.

Mordred nodded. He was so much more relaxed here in the woods, too far from Camelot to see its white walls. Merlin, contrarily, seemed tenser, more anxious. He'd told Lancelot that other than Mordred, he'd never really met a benign spellbinder. Well, a benign  _human_  spellbinder. Kilgharrah didn't count. Now he was walking to a camp full of druids, people who had grown up around magic and understood it far better than he did, and part of his excitement had turned to fear.

It was a lovely day, summer's bright sunshine mingling with a refreshing autumn wind. A few of the trees were just barely starting to turn, lending color to the endless tapestry of green and brown. Lancelot had always liked the woods. He suspected it had something to do with his home, a little village between the forest and the lake, and how that forest had hidden him when the bandits came.

"Our chief is a man named Iseldir," Mordred told his protectors. "I told him last night that I'd come back today, so he won't have moved the tribe."

Lancelot blinked at him. "Weren't you in Camelot then?" he asked.

"I was."

"I see." Lancelot waited. No response from Mordred. The would-be knight cleared his throat. Mordred ignored him, staring ahead, searching for any sign of his people.

It was Merlin who explained. "You remember what I told you about how Kilgharrah first called me, right?"

"The speaking without words?"

"Yeah. Druids can do that too."

"It's easier if you know the person well," Mordred explained. "I know Iseldir well enough that I can reach him even if he's relatively far away." His eyes clouded over. "Cerdan was even better at thought-speech."

"I'm sorry, Mordred," Lancelot said softly. He laid a hand on the boy's shoulder.

When Merlin had told him that he had the druid boy, that he'd gotten Arthur's permission to take the boy home (he'd actually said, "I have the druid boy and Arthur says I can take him out of the city," a statement that had required a great deal of explaining), Lancelot had tried to get ahold of Cerdan's bones. He didn't know a thing about druidic funerary rites, but he imagined that Cerdan' remains belonged with his people, to be reburied as they saw fit. But the druid was buried already, his corpse tossed into the unmarked pit reserved for sorcerers and criminals, and it would have been impossible to smuggle the cadaver out of the city anyways. Uther had opted for a speedy execution, so Cerdan had been beheaded instead of burned, much to Mordred and Merlin's relief.

"It isn't your fault," the boy whispered. Unshed tears glinted in his eyes, and Lancelot couldn't blame him. The poor boy had just lost the father of his heart, if not of his blood. Not to mention he'd been chased through the streets of Camelot by almost two dozen armed guardsmen who'd been ordered to take him dead or alive. "At least you tried."

It seemed like Lancelot was always trying, never succeeding. He'd tried to become a knight, to improve the guard, to protect Arthur from Sophia, to return Cerdan to his people. All those attempts had ended in failure. That was one of the reasons he had decided to leave: perhaps, if he got more experience on the road, he would stop failing quite so much.

"Aye, I did," the would-be knight sighed.

Mordred wiped away his tears. Merlin and Lancelot pretended not to notice. "It shouldn't be far now," the boy declared, blatantly changing the subject. "We were just three hours of walking from the gates, and we have horses now. Iseldir says that they haven't moved."

"What's it like, living with the druids?" Merlin asked.

"It's wonderful, usually," Mordred replied. "You're safe there and you know it. There's always a bit of worry in the back of your mind because you know that the hunters could find you at any moment, but for the most part, you know you're safe. You can use magic openly, and we do. People talk out loud and in each other's minds, but come nightfall they all quiet down and you can hear the owls and the breeze and sometimes a wolf or two howling at the moon. You eat fish and berries and acorn bread, and every druid knows how to hunt and find edible plants and mushrooms growing wild. You go north during the summer, but when autumn comes you have to start moving south. Once we went so far north that I saw Hadrian's Wall."

"Is it really as big as they say?" Merlin queried.

Mordred nodded. "One day, I want to go back and climb to the top. Iseldir says that the view is amazing."

"I bet it is." Merlin sighed wistfully. "I had magic from my first breath. Mother tried to find the druids when I was a baby, but she couldn't. Your people are good at staying hidden."

"Perhaps she wasn't meant to find them," Mordred suggested.

The older warlock mulled that over. "Perhaps." He sighed. "Still, I can't help but wonder what my life would have been like if she had."

"But you have found us now."

The voice that spoke was male and unfamiliar. Lancelot and the others whirled around. The former guard's hand grasped at his sword-hilt, an automatic reflex. When its owner saw who had spoken, the hand relaxed its grip, slid back to its usual place at Lancelot's side.

The druid—for druid he must be—had thick curly hair faded to gray and white. His skin was tanned and wrinkled from years in the sun, his features strong and blunt, his nose a bit large, but his eyes were warm and kind. He wore a robe of rough homespun and carried a tall, twisted staff.

"Iseldir," Mordred laughed. He jumped forward, wrapping the older druid in a tight hug. Iseldir returned the embrace, murmuring soft condolences.

After a long moment, Mordred broke away. "This is Iseldir," he explained unnecessarily. "He's our clan chief, and he sits on the Council of Twelve that makes decisions for all druids. Iseldir, the man with the sword is Lancelot. The other one…." A peculiar expression crossed Mordred's face. It was part excitement, part awe, part childish mischief, sprinkled with fearful wonder and something Lancelot couldn't identify. "His name is Merlin Caledonensis, but the prophecies call him Emrys."

_Prophecies?_  Lancelot thought, befuddled. A quick glance at Merlin revealed that the warlock was equally surprised.

Iseldir's eyes went wide. He turned that sharp, disbelieving gaze onto Merlin. The disbelief melted away, replaced by the same excited awe in Mordred's eyes. And then Chief Iseldir, who sat upon the Council of Twelve, knelt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update. I sort of forgot all about it.   
> Hadrian's Wall is a real structure. It spans Britain, separating England from Scotland. The Romans built it to keep the Scottish tribes out.  
> Yes, Lancelot is leaving. Yes, I knew he would leave after the Mordred episode right from the beginning.  
> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Merlin's Proper, Servant-like Behavior is Perceived as the Unnatural Horror that it is."


	21. The Acorn and the Oak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin and Lancelot spend some time with Mordred's clan.

Chapter XXI: The Acorn and the Oak

The druids were singing. Loud and strong their voices were, with the women singing high and clear and the men rumbling beneath them. The children sang as well, their passion making up for their lack of skill. Together, the druids wove a lovely tapestry of song.

But it was a sad song as well, a lament for a life cut too short. They could not bury Cerdan with an acorn, as their funerary traditions dictated, but the druids knew how to mourn even without a body. They'd had lots of practice since the Purge—or the Slaughter, as they called it—began. Iseldir had explained that while the traditional, official funeral rites required a body, they all knew the modified version which could be conducted without a corpse.

So they sang to the setting sun, tears streaming from their eyes and watering the soft ground where Mordred, Cerdan's foster son and heir, had planted an acorn. The boy was one of the few druids who remained silent, though his tears flowed just as quickly as theirs. He had tried to join in a couple of times, but his voice broke and he soon returned to his silent grief.

Merlin kept a hand on the boy's shoulder, squeezing gently, doing his best to be a strong pillar of support. He didn't know the songs, but he hummed along whenever the refrain cropped up. Lancelot, standing beside him, did the same. The former guard looked just as uncomfortable as Merlin felt.

When the last slivers of sunlight sank beneath the horizon, the druids fell silent, their heads bowed. Finally Iseldir spoke.

"The sun sets, the acorn is buried in the soft earth. Our brother is dead, his thread cut short, and we shall grieve him now and forevermore."

"Now and forevermore," his people echoed.

"Let us weep for Cerdan. Let us remember his life, his deeds, his soul… but let us not despair, for on the other side of the Veil, he feasts with the Caillyx and his forebears, now and forevermore."

"Now and forevermore," the druids repeated. This time Merlin and Lancelot spoke with them.

"The sun sets, but the moon rises and the stars shine. The acorn is buried, but soon it will grow into an oak. Life from death and death from life, now and forever more."

"Now and forevermore."

They remained there in silent vigil for a long time. Finally the druids at the edge of the ceremony began to walk away. At first it was just a few, but others followed until only Mordred, his two supporters, and Iseldir remained.

The druid chieftain made his way to them. "Come, Mordred," he said softly, wrapping an arm around the boy's shoulder. "You need to sleep."

Mordred and his leader walked away. Merlin and Lancelot exchanged glances, silently asking if they should follow or remain. They eventually decided to trail along behind the two druids, far enough away that they wouldn't intrude but close enough for Mordred to call them, if he so chose.

Iseldir brought the boy to an old woman's tent. She welcomed the boy inside without a word. The chieftain remained at the tent's door for another minute, then sighed heavily. His shoulders slumped as he walked to Merlin and Lancelot.

"I thought it would be best if he didn't sleep in Cerdan's tent," Iseldir explained. "At least not yet. Perhaps later, when the pain has dulled."

"That was probably a good idea," Lancelot said.

"Would you two like to use it for the duration of your stay? It is less than a Knight of the Round Table and Emrys deserve, but it will serve its purpose well enough."

"Knight?" Lancelot repeated, torn between hope and confusion.

"Emrys," Merlin murmured. The word had a strange, exotic taste on his tongue. "That's what Mordred called me."

Iseldir was plainly shocked. "Do you truly not know?" he asked.

"Not really," Merlin had to confess.

The druid was frowning. "Perhaps I could explain. Would you like to hear my words now, or in the morning?"

"Now, please."

Iseldir nodded, unfazed. Perhaps he'd expected that answer. "Very well. Follow me."

They obediently followed him into a simple homespun tent. It looked no different than any of the other domiciles, with nothing to indicate that it was the dwelling of a chief and not just another druid. The inside was almost empty of possessions, save for a few necessities—tableware, blankets and clothing, a half-dozen books—stored neatly in baskets. Druids were nomadic, so they couldn't keep ahold of many possessions. They carried their true wealth inside their minds: the knowledge of magic, the ability to survive anywhere in Britain.

Merlin settled himself on the rug/mat that he thought might double (triple?) as a bedroll, folding his long legs beneath him. Iseldir and Lancelot followed suit.

"Before I say anything," the druid began, "could you tell me what you already know about the prophecies?"

Lancelot inclined his head to Merlin. He knew that there were prophecies about Arthur uniting Albion with Merlin by his side, but he fully acknowledged that the warlock knew more than he did. To be perfectly honest, until today, Lancelot had half-suspected that the prophecies were really just products of Kilgharrah's mind, created in the twenty years of darkness and grief and loneliness he'd endured before Merlin set him free. Twenty years in a hole in the ground was enough to make anyone a bit crazy.

"When I met Kilgharrah, the dragon beneath the castle," Merlin began, "he told me that there were prophecies about how Arthur Pendragon was going to be… um… I think his exact words were 'the Once and Future King who would unite Albion,' but he might have phrased it a bit differently. The essence was the same, though. He said that Arthur would be a great king and that it was my destiny to stay by his side and protect him. Um, he also called me Ambrosius, which feels like Emrys."

Iseldir was surprised. "That is all you know?"

Merlin nodded, blushing slightly. "Kilgharrah likes to be cryptic, I think."

"I would not be surprised," Iseldir admitted. Then his eyes grew serious. "Kilgharrah was referring to a famous set of prophecies known as the Albion Cycle. These predictions come from many sources: the Vates, other Seers, the Sidhe, the dragons, even a Sybil or two. The gist of them is that there shall come a time of smoke and sorrow, when the gift of magic becomes a curse. But then Emrys would come, magic's champion, bringing the light of the sun. He would be the most powerful warlock of all time, guide and guardian to the Once and Future King who would unite Albion and dispel the smoke, end the sorrow."

The druid looked to Lancelot. "As for what I called you, the Round Table is a brotherhood of true knights sworn to uphold the ideals of Albion. They are mighty warriors all, but their true strength lies within their hearts. Resilience and Honor, Strength and Skill…. There are many, common-born and nobility, and some interpretations state that at least one will be a woman."

"I bet that's Morgana," Merlin chuckled.

Iseldir, smiling, turned back to him. "There is a great deal more to say, of course, original words and possible interpretations, the People's Queen and the Dragon Sword, but what I just told you is the meat of the cycle. My people have known these prophecies for generations, but we only really began to yearn for their fulfilment twenty years ago."

Merlin barely kept his jaw from going slack. So Kilgharrah wasn't crazy, there really  _were_  predictions that he and Arthur were supposed to save magic and create a place called Albion. And the druids had been yearning for that—probably praying for it, begging for it—for twenty years.

No pressure, then.

A sudden thought sparked hope. "Do the prophecies say how?" he demanded. "How I convince Arthur to bring back magic, that is."

"I'm afraid not."

Merlin groaned. Of course they didn't. "Then how am I supposed to make things change?"

Iseldir, frowning, tilted his head. He was quiet for a long time. Finally he asked, "What have you already done?"

So Merlin told him about questioning Uther's policies, about Edwin Muirden and two orbs of silver-blue light. Iseldir listened without comment, simply nodding at the appropriate times. It didn't take Merlin very long to finish his list of accomplishments, a fact that dismayed him.

"No, no," Iseldir said, correctly interpreting his guest's expression. "You have only known the prince for a few months. This sort of change takes time to ripen." He fell silent again, his eyes distant, his gaze deeply thoughtful. Finally, he slowly said, "You told me that the prince knows he has a sorcerous benefactor, but he does not know who this person may be."

"Yes." Merlin spread his hands helplessly. "And I can't exactly tell him it's me, because then he'll have to choose, and it's too early for me to know his choice. Why are you smiling? That's not a good thing!"

But Iseldir kept smiling. "Have you ever heard of glamors?"

* * *

Balinor had settled into a routine years ago: rise with the sun, check the spells of concealment at the mouth of his cave, break his fast on sheep's milk and cheese and fruit (berries in the spring and summer, apples for fall and winter). After breakfast, he had to milk his sheep and let them loose. They'd be back by the end of the day, even with his concealment spells at full strength. Then it was out into the forest to check his snares, when he'd set them, pick fruits, gather fresh water. Sometimes he'd wash his clothes or his body or both in the stream. Then he had to mend or carve the little pieces he'd sell at the market, where he went every fortnight or so. They were easy tasks, simple, but they kept him busy enough that he didn't have to think.

Didn't have to remember.

It was the nights that bothered him, the nights when the thoughts pushed and shoved and jostled each other just to be heard. Perhaps he could go see her. No, she'd gotten over him long ago, had married someone else and probably had five or six children by now. He was being entirely ridiculous, mooning over a woman he'd known for mere months, and that years and years ago.

He should leave Albion, go to Rome or Byzantium or legendary Cathay. No, he had to rescue Kilgharrah first, and they could travel the world together. Except the rumors about Kilgharrah being alive had to be fake, and Uther was waiting for him. But he was a dragonlord, his instincts said that the dragon still drew breath, and it had been twenty years since Kilgharrah was captured and what were the odds that Uther's guards were still looking for him? No, he had to go to Camelot and kill Uther and then rescue Kilgharrah, and the two of them would burn the entire accursed city to the ground. Find dragon eggs, if any still existed. Go to the druids. Go to the Catha. Go to the Vates and ask them what he was supposed to do now, because he sure as hell didn't know.

And then he would fall asleep, and awake the next morning, and repeat the cycle yet again.

Balinor knew that he was stuck in a rut. He knew that he should care about it more than he actually did. He knew that staying in the rut was bad for him, mind and body and soul.

What he didn't know was how to escape.

How pathetic, the last dragonlord reduced to this. Sometimes he wanted to throw it all away, go to Camelot and kill his way to Kilgharrah. It would probably kill him too, but that way, at least, his death would have meaning the way his life—if this dreary existence could be called that—did not.

But he stayed, and stayed, and stayed, until the day that Kilgharrah flew back into his life.

It was a day like any other, rise check eat milk  _don't think_. Autumn was just beginning to paint the trees, and the forest around him was noisy with squirrels preparing their winter storage. He saw birds gorging themselves in preparation for their journey south, gilded birches, even a great ponderous bear fishing at the stream. He ignored them all, focusing on gathering food for his own winter.

He was picking apples when a familiar presence tickled at the back of his mind. The dragonlord slowed, stilled. He held his breath.

" _Balinor."_

The dragonlord shuddered. Had he finally gone mad? That wouldn't surprise him at all.

" _Balinor._ "

He didn't feel mad, but how would he know what madness felt like? Did madmen recognize what they were?

" _Balinor…._ "

Hope hurt, for he wanted it to be true, craved it in his heart of hearts, but cold reason asked how the dragon could have escaped, how he could have found him, even why he would want to find him.

" _Balinor…._ "

The voice was growing fainter, fading with distance.

" _KILGHARRAH!_ "

" _Balinor?"_  his kin exclaimed.

" _Yes, it's me, here by the apple grove. Gods, Kilgharrah, is it really you?"_

" _It is I, brother of my soul."_

Balinor was smiling now, his mouth already sore from the unfamiliar position. He had a million things to say: How did you escape? Are you all right? I'm so sorry for not freeing you myself. I'd thought you dead, thought it in my head but not my heart and I couldn't choose. Are you real, really real, or have I fallen into fantasy? How did you find me? Why did you want to find me? I missed you. I thought of you every day, the last of my kin, my dear friend.

But he said none of them, merely waited, squinting at the sky.

There was a speck there, so high he could barely make it out. That high up, it was impossible to tell how big the speck actually was. But it was coming closer, flying more swiftly than a bird could manage, and every last half-forgotten instinct was telling him  _dragon dragon dragon._

The tiny high-up shape folded its wings and dove.

Balinor realized that his hands were shaking, that sweat beaded on his brow, that his heart thundered in his chest. He didn't care. All he cared about was the falling shape. He could make out more of its form, now, could see that it glittered gold and bronze and copper in the sunlight. Closer and closer it flew, until Balinor could make out the great crested head, the leathern wings, the long spiked tail.

He wasn't smiling now, he was beaming.

Kilgharrah's wings flared, blotting out the sky. Except for the web of bone, they were translucent in the noontide sunshine, turning the light which passed through them into streams of gold.

For such a big creature, Kilgharrah landed softly and almost delicately. He folded his wide wings and regarded Balinor with eyes the color of magic and fire.

"You are real," Balinor breathed. Shaking, he took an unsteady step forward, then another and another. He reached out a hand, pressed it against Kilgharrah's side. The scales were just as warm and smooth as he remembered, like pebbles in a stream. "I can't believe it, but you're here, you're real." He blinked moisture from his eyes.

He wasn't alone anymore.

"I am indeed," the dragon rumbled.

Balinor made a noise that was half-laugh, half-sob of joy. Tears blurred his vision, so he blinked them out as rapidly as they formed. He wanted to  _see_  his kin.

Kilgharrah waited for his human brother to calm himself. Finally, after several great gulping breaths, Balinor managed to ask, "How did you escape?"

The dragon's lips curled upwards, but his golden gaze sharpened. "Your son released me."

It was like being thrown into a snowdrift. Balinor's joy shattered, replaced by utter shock. "What?"

"I said," Kilgharrah repeated, "that your son released me."

Balinor sat down hard.  _I don't have a son,_  he wanted to say, but he could remember a peasant woman with dark hair and a sweet lovely smile. His mouth opened, but no words came out.

"His name is Merlin," the dragon continued. "He is eighteen years old and already a powerful young warlock, with a heart as strong as his magic. You should be proud of him, my kin."

Merlin. Merlin Caledonensis. And he was eighteen—probably almost nineteen by now, almost a man grown.

And he hadn't  _known._

"Tell me about him," Balinor begged.

So Kilgharrah did.

They talked until the sun dipped beneath the horizon and the stars blinked in. Merlin wasn't their only topic of discussion, though of course he featured prominently. They shared their own experiences, Balinor telling of his escape and Kilgharrah speaking briefly about the cave. The dragon told the dragonlord about just  _whom_  the prophecies spoke of, and though Balinor almost couldn't believe, he knew that his friend wouldn't lie to him, not about that. Finally, when the moon was high, Balinor led his friend to his cave. His sheep feared the dragon, of course, but they calmed down a bit after Kilgharrah (who had eaten mutton for the past twenty years and was heartily sick of it) made no attempt to eat them.

When dragon and dragonlord woke the next morning (though it was hardly morning anymore, almost noon), they spent a few minutes in companionable silence before Balinor spoke. "I don't know how to be a father."

Kilgharrah shrugged. "And Merlin does not know how to have a father."

"True," the dragonlord acquiesced, "but…."

"He wants to meet you."

Balinor nodded, but spoke no more.

They reminisced for the rest of the day, stopping only so Balinor could let his sheep in and out. The human had enough food stored that he didn't have to hunt and gather every day, especially now that he was beginning his preparations for the upcoming winter, and he was grateful for it. Talking with Kilgharrah, going over happier times when their kin had lived (and deliberately not mentioning how they had died), he found himself content for the first time in decades.

Somehow, though neither had mentioned Merlin and Camelot, they came to an agreement. When the last tint of sunset vanished from the sky, Balinor climbed atop Kilgharrah's back and rode to Camelot.

Dragons did not often take riders. They were  _dragons_ , not horses. Balinor thanked his friend profusely when they landed and spent the next hour or so pacing back and forth, back and forth.

Kilgharrah had told him all about Merlin's sheep smuggling, and it just so happened that today was a Wednesday. Merlin would come here tonight, and he would meet the son he'd never known he had.

Back and forth, back and forth….

There was a figure—no, two figures—going through the cave. Balinor stilled.

Then he frowned. This didn't seem quite right….

"Gaius?"

"Balinor?" The physician was even more surprised than the dragonlord. "I feared you were dead." He rushed over, laid his hands on Balinor's arms as though assuring himself that the apparition was real. "Dead, or out of the country, at least."

"I should be," Balinor admitted. Even now, he didn't know why he hadn't fled. "Gaius, where is…?"

The older man was confused only for a moment. Then his gaze softened. "There is a druid boy," he explained. "Merlin saved him from Uther's guards and is now returning him to his tribe. He's a fine young man, Balinor. You should be proud of him."

"Kilgharrah said the same thing." Which meant that two of the people who knew Merlin best had vouched for him. "Will you tell me about him, Gaius?"

"Of course," the physician replied, without hesitation. "What would you like to know?"

"Everything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Gaius and Balinor Join the Great Brotherhood of Sheep Smugglers"


	22. Hellos and Goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin returns to Camelot.

Chapter XXII: Reunions and Goodbyes

Merlin's new face was shaped like a heart, framed by wavy hair that was pale brown or deep gold depending on how the light hit it. His features were slight and delicate, his ears much smaller and less stuck-out than normal. His eyes were surrounded by lashes long and dark enough to make any woman jealous.

The eyes themselves were a bright and brilliant gold. Wolf eyes, falcon eyes, dragon eyes. A warlock's eyes.

The spellbinder stared at his reflection, bemused. It was strange, he reflected, to look into a stream and see someone else's face staring back. Even though the eyes were technically real, they'd been glamored blue his entire life, and his unwavering golden gaze was rather unsettling. Perhaps, he reflected, that was why so many predators had eyes the color of the sun.

So did that mean he was a predator? He didn't really think so. Maybe yellow eyes were a marker of something that could be very, very dangerous when provoked. A warning, though in Merlin's case, they'd had to conceal that warning.

It had been Gaius who had put the first glamor on his great-nephew's eyes. The old physician had journeyed to Ealdor when Hunith was eight months pregnant, for Hunith was the best midwife in the village and he wasn't going to entrust anyone else with her safety. Besides, it had been a while since their last visit, and he'd wanted to get away from court, from Uther's madness and rage.

Hunith had gone into labor when the sun set. She'd struggled all through the night, but when the east turned pink and orange and gold, she'd finally managed to deliver her child. Gaius had caught the boy, cut the cord, and nearly dropped him when he opened his brilliant golden eyes.

The infant Merlin hadn't done any magic then, just stared silently at his mother and their physician with his eerie sorcerous eyes, eyes that would get him and probably his mother killed if anybody saw them, eyes that showed no sign of changing to a more normal color. So Gaius had cast a spell for the first time in years, covering the infant's yellow orbs with irises of baby blue. That illusion had lasted for years, only faltering when Merlin actively used his magic, and it felt very strange to have taken it off. Strange, but right too, somehow.

"You'll need a name," Lancelot said, interrupting the warlock's wandering thoughts.

"Right," Merlin agreed. He straightened, looked away from the reflection. "Um… Dragoon?"

Lancelot gave him a  _look._  "Perhaps you ought to just stick with Emrys."

"Yes, you're probably right." He glanced down at the water again, smiled ruefully. "I don't think I've ever looked this warlocky."

It wasn't just the eyes, though of course those had a great deal to do with it. It certainly wasn't his face, which was pleasant but unremarkable. The druids had given him new clothing: dark gray trousers, high-necked forest green tunic, and a long, soft navy cloak clasped by an iron triskel. All he was missing was the staff he'd taken from Aulfric and he'd be the very picture of a wandering spellbinder.

"I don't think that warlocky is a word, Merlin."

"It should be," he muttered.

Lancelot's lips twitched. "If you say so."

They had spent six wonderful days with the druids, learning more about the prophecies (which seemed to consist mostly of ominous gibberish that scholars had been arguing about for centuries, but there were a few things that seemed clear enough), meeting the people, practicing magic out in the open (Lancelot, of course, just watched), and making plans.

Merlin's arrival—or, to be more precise, the arrival of  _Emrys_ —had lit a fire in the druids. They grieved for Cerdan, yes, and Mordred especially spent a great deal of time by the tiny plot of ground where they'd planted his acorn, but their focus was on the future, not the past. Hope, not despair.

The first thing to do, Iseldir had said, was to get the word out. Tell the other druid clans that the prophecies were on the verge of fulfillment, that Emrys had found the Once and Future King and was turning his heart to magic. Druids first, then other magical factions like the Catha and the Vates and the Disir, if anybody could find them.

Merlin had interrupted him then, asking if he was really going to tell the entire island that Prince Arthur Pendragon's manservant Merlin was secretly a warlock. That, he'd pointed out, would rather defeat the purpose of his disguise. Iseldir had replied that not, of course they wouldn't tell his birth name… but they  _had_  to tell the world that Emrys was here.

So they'd tell the druids and Catha and all the others, and come next Midsummer, their leaders and envoys would travel to the Isle of the Blessed to discuss a more thorough battle plan with Emrys.

That was when Lancelot had butted in. He said that this shouldn't be the limit of their message, that they should send out instructions with the news. If they had a good idea, something that didn't need much discussion, then why should they wait?

And Merlin hadn't even had to think. "Tell them to quit attacking and killing people," he ordered (though he didn't really see it as an order, because he hadn't quite comprehended that the druids would  _listen_  to his orders like the knights would listen to Leon or Arthur). "Tell them that Arthur's not the only person whose mind has to change. The smallfolk fear magic, they've seen it badly used too many times." Inspiration struck, an idea so blindingly obvious that of course no one had ever spotted it before. "And tell them that they're to use their magic publically, but for  _good._ "

That had resulted in naught but stares and silences. Merlin didn't blame the druids; he could hardly believe that he'd said that. In a smaller voice, he continued, "Not recklessly or anything, I meant that if people wearing glamors were to go out in groups and disappear as soon as the deed was done, that would help."

"Yes," Iseldir agreed, nodding slowly, "it would."

The envoys had left on Merlin and Lancelot's fifth day with the camp, bearing news that the prophecies were on the verge of fulfillment and a strategy from the mouth of Emrys himself. Be cautious, he told them, don't be stupid, but let people see, remind them that magic isn't just about afancs and curses. Fight cautiously, fight smart, but  _fight_ the prejudice, or it would never ever go away _._

It was time for Merlin to leave now, for him and Lancelot to go their separate ways, but he didn't want to. He liked living with the druids, learning magic openly and having people respect him and planning to save magic and not having to hide. He would miss that most of all, he thought, not having to hide.

So he delayed, switching his glamor on and off, his eyes golden all the while.

Lancelot knew what he was doing, of course. The knight-to-be's smile was sad. "Merlin."

The warlock's shoulders slumped. "I know," he confessed in a tiny voice.

"It's not like I'm dying," his friend pointed out.

"I'll miss you all the same."

"And I you. Protect Guinevere for me, will you? Please."

Something seized Merlin's tongue then, something he hadn't experienced since the day a young boy stood before a king who meant to kill him, the day he'd seen two great wyverns fighting. Merlin heard himself speak, but not with his own voice or his own words. There was a deep booming echo in his tone, a formality and solemnity most uncharacteristic of the young man.

" _Ere the gem shatters and the black eyes close, we will meet again, Knight of Joyous Garde. Til then, let the lily grow strong where the lavender now dwells. Seek the lily, seek the arcs, and return before the break of dawn."_

There was a long silence.

"Um," Lancelot finally said, "what?"

"I have no idea whatsoever."

"…I thought that that might be the case."

There was another silence.

"I thought you couldn't do that anymore?" Lancelot asked. "Make prophecies, that is."

"So did I," Merlin confessed. He wondered if living with the druids had brought back his ability, if all it took for him to see the future was a few days of living without pretense. "But it was a prophecy." The warlock brightened. "And I called you a knight!"

Lancelot's eyes went wide with shock and something like hope. "You did," he said slowly. "'Knight of Joyous Garde.' Do you know what Joyous Garde is?"

"Probably a castle or something. Have you ever wanted a castle, Lancelot? Because I think you're getting one."

"You think I'm getting a castle?"

"Why not? Lots of knights have castles."

Lancelot had to sit down at that. "A knight with a castle," he repeated dazedly.

Mordred chose that moment to come over. "Farewell, Lancelot," he said softly.

Lancelot pushed himself to his feet, clasped Mordred's hand. "Farewell, Mordred. It was a pleasure to meet you, though I wish with all my heart we'd met in different circumstances." He sighed heavily. "I will miss you and your people."

"And we will miss you," Iseldir, who had followed his young charge, said. "You and Emrys both. But all men must part before they can meet again."

"And we will," Merlin reminded him, thinking of what he had just foretold.

"Would you break your fast with us before you leave?" Iseldir asked. "That will give you more opportunity to say goodbye."

So the two visitors followed their host to the morning meal, bread and apples and jams and a little bit of cheese. They kept conversation light and pleasant, only faltering when yet another person came to bid them farewell.

When Merlin came back from changing into his regular clothes (he was going to use his druidic clothing as part of the Emrys disguise, and anyways, he could hardly run around Camelot with that triskel on his cloak), Lancelot and the druids had finished eating. The warlock grabbed an apple for the road and said his final goodbyes to Lancelot, to Mordred, to Iseldir and all his kin except one man.

Blaise was old and wizened, with hair like frosted iron and a strong square chin. The man was not powerful, just barely a wizard, but he was knowledgeable and creative enough to make up for that. He had been training spellbinders for forty years, and now he would stay behind to teach Merlin everything he knew. And since their first lesson would be very soon, Merlin merely nodded at his new mentor. Blaise nodded back.

Finally, Merlin and Lancelot could delay no longer. They embraced each other one final time before going their separate ways.

The druid camp seemed to melt into the forest. After less than five minutes of walking, Merlin could hardly tell that there was a habitation behind him, nor could he catch any glimpse of Lancelot's gray cloak. Soon enough he was on the road, squinting for a sliver of white in the distance.

Camelot grew steadily larger on the horizon. First he could only see its walls, then the tallest buildings, then the general shape of the city. Soon he was there, going through the gates and up to the palace that was his… home?

He didn't know for sure, but perhaps it was.

* * *

Balinor was… nervous. All right, he was more than nervous. 'Terrified' would be a much better description. But he was excited too, and hopeful, and a million other things that were all jumbled together in a chaotic mess of emotion.

Tonight, he would finally meet Merlin. His son.

In a way, this was even more difficult than reuniting with Hunith. He'd gone to Ealdor after learning that Merlin was with the druids, had lingered in the woods by the well until she came for water. She was just as beautiful as he remembered, pale and dark and lithe, moving with the easy elegance of the lady she would have been, had he done the honorable thing and married her (except he wasn't quite certain that was the honorable thing, because then she would have been in even more danger, her and Merlin both). He had stood there in silence, drinking in the sight of his love, until she turned away. Then he'd called her name, softly, ever so softly, and she had turned.

They'd shed many tears that night, crying from joy and from happiness, and gotten not a wink of sleep. They'd talked for hours: Where have you been? What happened? By all the gods, I missed you. What should we do now? I'm so sorry, my love. Can I call you that still? Because even after all these years, I still love you.

They'd spoken of Merlin too, of course, though Hunith hadn't known how to bring him up. She stopped and started no fewer than four times before Balinor raised his left hand (for his right hand was holding hers, had held hers since they met by the well and would continue to hold hers until exhaustion caught up with them and they fell asleep) to her lips and told her that he knew about their son.

That, of course, had set off another bout of tears, another series of questions and answers and stories. They talked until the sun peeked over the eastern horizon, until the village around them began to stir.

Hunith had to leave then, for years of living with a powerful warlock for a son had made her very wary of raising suspicion, and she feared the neighbors might wonder if she didn't help with the harvest. She could, she admitted,  _probably_  get away with telling them that she was sick, but that might result in visitors entering the house and noticing Balinor. She had just reunited with him, and she had no desire to be separated again—if, of course, she hastened to add, Balinor felt the same way.

The dragonlord's only response to that had been a soft kiss on the lips.

Hunith managed to nap for roughly an hour before Balinor woke her with breakfast. His love smiled so sweetly when she saw him there, when she realized that it hadn't been a beautiful dream. Balinor smiled back.

He cleaned the house for her while she was gone, then collapsed into her cot for a few hours of sleep. When he woke, she was sitting nearby watching him.

They still had a bit of time before the harvest, so Hunith told Ealdor that she'd decided to visit Merlin in Camelot and purchase a few winter supplies there. She knew better than to go into Camelot, of course—according to Gaius, her 'son' Mordred had already acquired supplies enough for the whole town, and Merlin and Mordred were supposedly already with her—but she was no stranger to camping out in the woods, and Balinor was more comfortable camping than sleeping in a village. They had arrived just yesterday, and had spent the past day and a half waiting for their son ( _their son,_  Balinor still had trouble believing it) to arrive.

Now night had fallen and the city had settled down to sleep, and any minute now, Merlin would come out of Kilgharrah's cave, and Balinor would meet his son for the first time.

He was a bit anxious about that, actually.

"You'll be fine," Hunith assured him. She wasn't nervous at all. Excited, yes, but not afraid. Balinor wished he could say the same. "You will love each other."

The dragonlord forced himself to smile. "Of course."

Hunith narrowed her eyes. "Balinor."

The dragonlord's forced smiled morphed into a sheepish grin. "I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Hunith told him. "You have every right to be nervous, but no  _reason_  to be."

"You are the only person I know, besides Kilgharrah, who can make something like that make sense."

She laughed softly, then walked over and took his hand. "I mean it, though. One day, you'll look back on this and laugh."

"Perhaps," Balinor admitted, "but it will be a long time before then."

Hunith nodded. "True."

Kilgharrah, who had been watching in silence, lifted his great head. "You chose wisely, Balinor," he rumbled. A faint smile curved his mouth.

"Thank you," Hunith murmured. Her eyes glittered with mischief. "Though sometimes, I think it's more me choosing poorly."

That startled a laugh from her love, just as she had no doubt intended. Kilgharrah's smile widened.

Balinor opened his mouth, a smarmy retort on his lips, but a very unexpected sound cut him off before he could start. It was something he'd heard many times over the last few years, though usually the sound was provoked by shearing.

It was the sound of a sheep bleating in terror.

The dragonlord went rigid. He forgot what he would have said, forgot his few minutes of humor and all of Hunith's reassurances. He forgot everything except the meaning of that sound, for with the sheep came the shepherd, and the shepherd was his son.

Hunith was holding his hand and Kilgharrah's silent presence guarded his back, but Balinor scarcely noticed them. His gaze was fixed on the mouth of the cave. A faint light flickered along its walls, casting shadows.

"Shush," said an unfamiliar male voice. "Shush, that's a good sheep now. I'll protect you from the big scary dragon."

The sheep baaed again. It didn't sound convinced.

Balinor became aware that he was shaking, that sweat was trickling down his brow. Hunith squeezed his hand, and that helped a little. He managed to swallow hard.

The light, a floating orb of blue-white shot with gold, drifted around the corner. Two shapes followed, but Balinor only had eyes for one.

Merlin was tall for his age and slender, with pale skin and a head of night-black hair. His features were sharp and angular, and—much to Balinor's surprise—the boy had his grandfather's ears. Actually, he looked quite a bit like his grandfather, but Hunith's blood was plain too. He looked like both sides of his family, his mother and his father, and for some reason, the thought took Balinor's breath away.

The young warlock had been focused on dragging along his reluctant companion. "Hello, Kilgharrah," he said, not looking up. "Sorry I'm a bit late. Arthur's being a sulky little baby again, the…." But now he turned, took in the scene before him for the first time. Merlin paused, going almost completely still. Only his eyes moved, flitting from the dragon to his mother to the stranger by her side. The eyes went very, very wide.

"Mother?" Merlin choked. "Who… who is he?"

Hunith's answering smile lit up the night. "This is Balinor Caledonensis," she said, "your father."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yays, they have met! Huzzah! (and tomorrow, he shall die in Merlin's arms after saving his life, because that's how-oh, wait, that only happens in the actual show)
> 
> Anyone have any guesses about Merlin's prophecy? Because Merlin certainly doesn't.
> 
> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Merlin is More Warlocky Than Ever Before"


	23. For Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin meets his father and makes a decision.

Chapter XXIII: For Now

They looked so alike, her dragonlord and their son. Now that she could see them standing together, face to face for the first time, Hunith could see the resemblance more easily than ever. Same sharp features, same long faces, even the same expressions of wary hope.

Merlin was the first to speak. No surprise there—he'd always been a chatty one. "My father?" he repeated, looking from Hunith to Balinor with enormous eyes. "He's really…. You're really my father?"

"So they tell me," Balinor managed. His voice was hoarse, thick, ragged.

"They being Mother and Kilgharrah?"

"Yes."

They fell silent to gaze at one another, probably searching for traits that they shared. Or maybe they were just drinking in the sight, etching it into their memories. Hunith certainly was.

Merlin opened his mouth, closed it, swallowed. "I've never had a father before," he said quietly.

"And I've never had a son," Balinor replied. He flinched. "Not one that I've known, anyways." His shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" Merlin was surprised. "For what?"

"Everything." Balinor gave a helpless little shrug. "Not knowing. Not being there. Leaving you and your mother alone."

"Not leading Uther's men to Ealdor," Merlin interjected.

"I lost them years ago," Balinor confessed. "I'd lost them and I knew I'd lost them, but I still didn't go to you."

"You were trying to keep us safe," Hunith reminded him. "Well, me, at least, and you told me that you thought I had married someone else. 'A clean break,' you told me. 'Forget me. I'll cause you naught but pain.' You honestly thought that staying away was the best thing to do." She took his hand, gave it a little squeeze. "How could either of us fault you for doing what you genuinely thought was the right thing?"

"I don't," Merlin assured him. "I, I admit that there were times when it was a bit difficult, growing up without a father, but I always knew that you were trying to keep Mother safe, so I never resented you for it." He paused a moment. "Father." An almost shy smile flitted across his face. "Father. I've never called anyone that."

"You can now, if you want to," Balinor said.

"Why wouldn't I want to?"

Balinor didn't answer, but his expression said volumes.

Hunith's heart nearly broke to see him so sad, so guilty. She pulled him forward, toward their son. He looked at her with a question in his eyes, but she just silently shook her head, gave another tug. Her dragonlord obediently followed as she led him over to Merlin.

Their son had an idea of what his mother intended. He shifted his weight, looked at her as though asking permission. Hunith just smiled a sad sweet smile and pushed Balinor to stand at Merlin's side. Then she wrapped her arms around them both.

Hunith was a small woman. In order to embrace her lover and her son at the same time, she had to draw them together until their sides touched. They leaned into her. Merlin extended his arms, reached for his mother's shoulders. She frowned at him, shook her head. Her son understood. The arm farther from Balinor wrapped around Hunith's slight frame, but the other arm, the one closer to the dragonlord, hovered in midair. He looked at his father, head cocked, eyes beseeching.

And Balinor grabbed them both, crushing the three of them together. He buried his face in Hunith's shoulder; she could feel his hot tears through the fabric of her dress. She rubbed his back, murmured sweet nothings to them both. "It's okay, it's okay…."

"Yes," Merlin agreed. "Yes, it is."

* * *

He had a father.

Merlin wanted to shout it from the rooftops, tell everyone he knew and everyone he didn't. He wanted to stay in the forest with Kilgharrah and both his parents—both!—and talk and laugh and cry and get to know the man he'd missed his entire life.

Yet here he was, dragging a recalcitrant princeling out of bed.

The warlock hadn't slept at all last night. His parents (parents! Plural!) had stayed with him until dawn, when Kilgharrah's departure had reminded them that their son had things to do in the day. They had left then, ordering him to get a couple hours of sleep before work, but he hadn't been able to actually do that. Lightning surged through his veins, energizing him, making him twitch.

Now, though, he was beginning to feel the lack of shuteye. Funny how proximity to Arthur seemed to trigger that.

"Will you quit that?" the prince in question demanded.

"Quit what?" Merlin asked, yawning.

Arthur tried to speak, but a yawn escaped his throat instead. He scowled. "Yawning!"

"I'd love to quit yawning, but I don't think it works that way." Merlin yawned again.

Arthur scowled at him, but the effect was rather ruined by another yawn escaping his mouth. "Merlin!"

"Sorry," the servant mumbled.

"Can't you get Gaius to make you something for your blasted insomnia?" he demanded.

Merlin flushed. Insomnia might make a convenient excuse for his nighttime excursions, but he really didn't want to have to scarf down some disgusting concoction just to placate Arthur. "We've tried," he said.

"Try again."

Merlin rolled his eyes. "Yes, sire."

"How do you make even that sound insulting?"

"I've had lots of practice." A smirk. "Sire."

Arthur just glared at him. "Go get my breakfast."

"Siiiire." Merlin bowed ridiculously low as he backed out of the room. Just as he turned around, another yawn escaped his throat. No doubt Arthur would yawn in response. The thought made him chuckle, but soon, the laughter faded into a pensive frown, for he had a choice to make.

Arthur or Balinor. Magic or family.

Except, he mused, trotting towards the kitchens, it wasn't a choice he had to  _make_  as much as a choice he had to  _admit to_. He knew in his bones what he would do, what he had to do. It was just regret and wistful thinking that deluded him into half-believing that there was a decision to make between two options that he could actually live with. But no.

Perhaps… perhaps, had Balinor arrived before his sojourn in the druid camp, perhaps then he would—could—do something different. Perhaps not, for Edwin Muirden had died months ago and Merlin had made a promise then, a promise he would keep if it killed him.

He had to stay in Camelot.

Part of him—not all of him, but a huge part—wanted to go back home, to get to know his father, to see his mother smile. He wanted to leave the fear behind (except that was impossible, wasn't it?) and see Will and explore the caves and visit the familiar sites of his childhood. He wanted a way of supporting himself that didn't involve emptying chamber pots.

But he wanted to free magic even more, and he couldn't do that from Ealdor.

Back in the village where he had grown up, he would be just another farm boy. An odd one, yes, and a bastard at that, but still another face in the crowd, another life that, while it would affect those around him, wouldn't change the world. In the long run, his existence would be interchangeable with that of any other farmer or villager: different in its details, yes, but exactly the same in terms of what he had accomplished, the footprints he left behind.

The problem was, Merlin had just essentially promised to leave behind some pretty big footprints. The magical counterattack (for lack of a better term) was his idea, and people were doing it on his orders. They were doing it for  _him._  How could he go back to Ealdor and abandon them?

And that wasn't even taking any other factors into consideration. Arthur and Gwen and even Morgana were his friends, and they were here in Camelot as well. Arthur was in pretty much constant danger and needed Merlin's protection, even if he refused to admit it. Even Nimueh was a reason to stay behind, for she would kill every innocent in Camelot if it would hurt Uther.

So he had to stay, simply because Ealdor didn't  _need_ him like Camelot did.

But how was he supposed to tell this to his parents?

The question haunted him as the day went on. He ran through a thousand different scenarios, wishing with all his heart that he knew his father better, that he could actually predict Balinor's reaction. His mother would understand, he knew, for she had always been gifted with a rare clarity of vision. It would break her heart, but she would understand. Perhaps she already knew that Merlin would choose to stay in Camelot. Balinor, though….

Arthur noticed his manservant's turmoil, and he tried to help in the only way he knew how: by putting a wooden practice sword in Merlin's hand and making him thwack a training dummy until his arms were numb. Supposedly, it would let him work out his frustrations. It really just gave him blisters and more time to think.

"Have you considered using a different weapon for him?"

Leon's voice startled Merlin out of his reverie. The servant paused, lowered his wooden blade.

"I didn't say you could stop, Merlin," Arthur said.

"You didn't say I couldn't," Merlin retorted. By now, the backtalk was automatic. "What do you mean, Leon?"

"I mean that you could probably become a decent swordsman, given enough time and practice—"

"Which I'm not going to get, because I serve a filthy pig-man."

Leon's lips twitched. "—but you're probably much better suited for something else."

Arthur tilted his head as though sizing his manservant up. "He's too scrawny for a hammer, axe, or mace," the prince noted.

"I'm also right here, you know."

"Did you use any weapons back in your village?"

"Just my fists, when people decided to beat me up."

"That's not true," Arthur corrected, a somewhat terrifying gleam entering his eyes. "Didn't you use sticks as well?"

"The quarterstaff?" Leon asked.

"No, just sticks," Merlin told him.

"He means for in the future, you dolt," Arthur said.

"Oh." Merlin thought of the staff he'd taken from Aulfric. He didn't think that it was meant for something so…physical.

Leon was grinning now. "Yes, let's try out the quarterstaff, shall we? People always underestimate staves, and they underestimate servants as well."

Arthur was horrified. "Are you implying that I need  _this idiot_  to protect me?"

"You do," Merlin told him.

Leon's grin faded. "I think," he said, dead serious, "that you shouldn't let Merlin's loyalty go to waste. If he's going to accompany you on your quests, then maybe it's best to make him your secret weapon."

"Don't be ridiculous. Merlin can't keep secrets."

"Or maybe I'm just so good at keeping them that you haven't realized that I have any."

Arthur laughed. "I suppose a stave will make him stop complaining about pointy things."

"Only if you put your pointy things away."

"Shall we give it a try?" Leon cut in, nipping the banter in the bud. Enjoyable as it was to listen to them, they did tend to take up a great deal of time once they got started.

Merlin shrugged. "I suppose." The knights looked at him expectantly. The servant frowned. "What? I just said I'll give it a try."

"Merlin," Arthur said, speaking slowly and clearly, "do you see any quarterstaffs?"

"Well, no."

"Then perhaps you would like to get one, as you are the servant and fetching things is part of your job."

"Really? And here I thought that I was a fencing—er, staving—student."

Arthur glared.

"Fine, fine," Merlin sighed, trotting away to fetch a quarterstaff.

They spent the rest of the day in the training field, forcing Merlin's exhausted body through maneuvers and feints and parries. Much to his own surprise, he wasn't half-bad with the stave. It was certainly a better fit than, say, a mace. Even Arthur had declared him 'tolerable enough, for an idiot with no experience.'

Merlin had responded by brandishing his staff at him.

By the time the training session was done, dinner was eaten, and Arthur had been put to bed, Merln's eyelids were rebelling against him. He very badly wanted to indulge them, go to bed and actually sleep, but his parents (two of them!) were waiting in the woods, and he had to have a thoroughly unpleasant discussion with them.

That was another reason that sleep sounded so tempting.

But no. He trudged through Kilgharrah's old cave, made his way over to his family. Hunith immediately pulled him into a hug, kissed the top of his head. Balinor remained where he stood, watching with a fond smile. Merlin smiled back, but his smile degenerated into a yawn. Hunith and Balinor yawned in response.

"Sorry about that," their son mumbled. "It's been a long day babysitting the prat, and I haven't had a chance to sleep yet."

"Perhaps you can catch up later," Balinor suggested.

Merlin swallowed, looked away. He wasn't tired anymore, just nervous. "It will take awhile, though, because I'm staying in Camelot."

Balinor blinked at him.

"I'm staying," Merlin repeated, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. "In Camelot, I mean. I'm staying here."

Balinor said nothing, just stared.

Merlin couldn't look at him anymore. He lowered his gaze to stare at his shuffling feet. "I told you about the druids, about what they're going to do with me. For me, even. I can't just let them… and Arthur, I think I'm getting through to Arthur, and he's going to be king one day and maybe he'll set us free, but I don't know if he will unless I'm here to guide him and keep him alive, because there's been a truly ridiculous amount of attempts on his life just since I've gotten here and I'm not sure how he's survived this long. But this is something I have to do, Father, Mother, and I'm sorry, but I just can't—"

"I understand," Balinor said quietly.

"What?"

"I understand," the dragonlord repeated, soft and sad and something else, something Merlin couldn't name. "You're a fighter. A dragon." He forced a smile. "You will… you'll write, yes?"

"Of course," Merlin choked out. "I write to Mother all the time."

"Good, good."

"It isn't you," the warlock blurted. "I wish I could, because I want to get to know you and have a father and see you and Mother together, but—but this is something I  _have_  to do. It just is."

"We understand, Merlin," his mother said, gathering her boy into her arms. Merlin buried his face in her kerchief and tried to pretend that he wasn't crying. "Do you have any idea how proud of you I am?"

That just made his tears flow faster, his shoulders start to shake. Tiny choking noises escaped his throat.

"As am I," Balinor agreed. Hesitant, uncertain, he closed in on his love and their son. Strong arms wrapped around them. "I'm very proud of you, Merlin."

The warlock lost it completely. He was sobbing now, his tears soaking Hunith's kerchief and the hair beneath it, trembling like a leaf in the wind. Neither parent commented, perhaps because their eyes were also filled with liquid sorrow.

They made the most of the night, talking and talking and talking some more, but Merlin's lack of sleep took its toll. He found it harder and harder to stay awake, resorted to pacing and standing just to keep his eyes open. But though he put up a good fight, he couldn't remain awake forever.

One moment, or so it seemed, he was yawning in the forest, listening to Balinor talk about his cave. The next, Gaius was shaking him awake.

"Huh?" Merlin asked, blinking grime from his eyes. "Gaius?"

"Your father brought you back," the physician explained. "He asked me to wake you about an hour before you need to go get Arthur."

"Why'd he do that?" the warlock asked, his head still fuzzy.

Gaius's eyes were sad. "Because he and Hunith have to leave today, and they wanted to say goodbye."

Merlin was out the door almost before his mentor had finished.

Sure enough, Hunith and Balinor were waiting for him at the mouth of the cave. Merlin embraced them, then said, "Sorry for falling asleep on you."

"You were exhausted," his mother reminded him. "You probably still are."

"I wanted to see you again."

"And so you have." Hunith's eyes gleamed.

"So you're both going to Ealdor?"

"Yes," Balinor confirmed. "Like I should have long ago."

"Good," Merlin said, ignoring his father's self-recrimination. "That way it'll be easier to stay in touch. Which I will," he hastened to add. "I think that a letter every week is reasonable, right? And remember how I told you that the druids have left me a tutor? As soon as I can, I'm going to ask Blaise to teach me that whirlwind spell where you disappear and show up someplace else."

"Teleportation is difficult, but I have no doubt that you'll master it quickly," Balinor told him. "You have a gift, Merlin. Use it well."

"I'll try, Father."

They lingered in silence, for there was nothing else to say. They'd spent the last night talking, not to mention the night before that, and for now, at least, their words were all used up.

"I suppose this is goodbye," Hunith finally sighed. She looked up, eyes hardening. "No. It is goodbye for  _now_."

Merlin smiled. "For now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative chapter title: "Wherein Yawning is Obnoxiously Contagious"  
> Next chapter: An unpleasant character arrives in Camelot.


	24. The Hunter of Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unwelcome visitor comes to Camelot.

Chapter XXIV: The Hunter of Men

Morgana's head was high and her shoulders straight, but her fists were clenched tight, her spine rigid, and she found it hard to breathe.

Uther sat upon his throne, gazing down at the man before him. He did not smile, but Morgana had known him for years. She could tell that he was pleased.

Gwen stood at Morgana's back, almost radiating worry. Morgana could feel her stare boring into her. The maid had squeezed her hand on the way to the throne room, a silent promise of support and protection—or at least, Gwen's eyes had said, whatever meager protection a maidservant could offer. Morgana couldn't help but be grateful for her friend's presence, couldn't help but take strength from Gwen's support. She had the feeling that she could use all the support she could get.

The lady's eyes flitted around the room, settled on Gaius. The old physician looked just as uncomfortable as she felt. He kept his face blank and expressionless, but the tightness around his eyes, the stiffness of his posture, spoke of tension, even a little bit of fear. At his side, Merlin alternated between looking worriedly at his mentor and glaring at the cause of Gaius's fear with a mix of anger and apprehension.

The rest of the court looked on with a thousand emotions: fear, hope, happiness (and Morgana took especial note of those ones, for they were her enemies), wariness, distrust, dislike, eagerness. Leon's new squire, a lad called Marrok, was visibly trembling. Old Geoffrey of Monmouth was as blank-faced as Morgana herself, but once in a while he would glance at his friend Gaius. Arthur was particularly hard to read, which was quite unusual for him, but Morgana didn't think that he seemed particularly happy.

The cause of all this anxiety and anger and, yes, sick joy as well stood in the center of the throne room as calm and cool as a lake on a windless day. He was smiling, but the smile didn't quite reach his cold, serpentine eyes. As Morgana watched, he bowed low before the throne. "Your Majesty."

Uther smiled back, and Morgana's heart twisted at the reminder that he was her enemy, that he would kill her if he knew the truth about her dreams. "Aredian. It is truly a pleasure to have a witchfinder of such talent here at Camelot."

"I wish, Your Majesty, that I could say it is a pleasure to be here, but alas, I cannot. Your city reeks of sorcery, Uther Pendragon. A kingdom one noble and powerful has grown corrupt, rotten to the core, and now we stand on the brink of dark oblivion. You did well to call me here. I only hope that I am not too late."

"My knights are at your disposal," the king announced. "You will have access to all the might of Camelot."

Aredian inclined his head. "The knights of Camelot are the finest in the world, but sorcery is a subtler, more insidious disease. It can only be fought by methods perfected after decades of study, methods known only to myself. All I ask is a fair price, for gratitude alone cannot put food in a man's belly."

"You will have your payment, Aredian," Uther declared. "Now, when do you begin?"

The witchfinder's smile returned full force. "I've already begun."

* * *

 

"Stay away from him, Gwen."

"I should say the same to you."

Morgana shook her head, dark hair flying to and fro. She was pacing from nervous energy, her shoulders shaking. "I don't have a choice," the lady reminded her friend. "I'm Uther's ward, and Aredian is going to eat at his table. But I don't want him to know you exist, even if you're about as magical as my shoes. At least I have my status to protect me."

"And me," Gwen said quietly. "You have me, too."

Morgana's eyes filled with tears. She blinked them away, swallowed hard, unable to speak.

"We have to find some way of getting rid of him," Gwen continued. She sighed. "I don't suppose we could try framing him for theft?"

Morgana winced. That hadn't gone so well last time. Still…. "It almost worked with Sophia," she remembered. "Uther was furious. He would have thrown her and Aulfric out if even if they hadn't tried to kidnap Arthur. And nobody knows that the Tir-mors were framed. Leon is still trying to figure out why they stole those rubies but didn't bring them with when they fled."

Gwen's brow creased. "So do you think that's feasible? Not with woman's jewelry, obviously, but if we could get ahold of, say, something from the royal treasury…."

"Maybe. How long do you think it would take Uther to notice?"

"I really don't know. And then there's the issue of actually getting into the treasury."

Morgana sighed. "I suppose that we should just keep it in mind." She ran her hand through her hair. "But we have to get rid of him somehow, and soon. You heard him going on about how Camelot is rotten to the core. He's going to find spellbinders everywhere, whether or not they're real." She shuddered. She didn't need to say that Uther wouldn't need more proof than Aredian's word before he burnt the poor accused sorcerer alive. Gwen knew that just as well as she did.

Gwen frowned pensively. "Do you think there are any?"

"What?"

"Spellbinders," Gwen clarified. "I used to think that there weren't any actually living in the city, that they'd get as far from Uther as they could, but now I know that there are some who can't get out. And I bet there's others who don't know what they are, people with oddly prophetic dreams or young witches using magic in their sleep."

Morgana nodded slowly. "I never thought about it before, but…. I think you might be right." Somehow, the knowledge made her feel a little less lonely.

"Which is all the more reason to get Aredian out," Gwen declared. "Because even though Uther says all spellbinders are monsters, Morgana, you  _aren't,_ and that means that they aren't either. Well, some of them are, I suppose, like the one who poisoned Merlin, but that was something she chose instead of something she  _is_. And—and that little druid boy, the one who disappeared, he and his father were here to get supplies. They weren't going to hurt anybody; they weren't evil either. They shouldn't be treated like the witch who almost killed Merlin, and neither should these other hypothetical sorcerers if they haven't done anything wrong. If they do something evil, if they hurt or kill or something like that, then yes, they should be punished, but—"

"I know," Morgana interrupted. "I know, Gwen."

Her maid smiled weakly. "I suppose you do." She sighed. "But back to the point, we have to get rid of him somehow. Should we do it?"

"Maybe. Let's just see if we can think of anything else first. Any ideas?"

"We could maybe try to—"

A knock interrupted Gwen's suggestion. The maid jumped, eyes going wide. Fear flitted across her face. Morgana wasn't much better. The same question raced through both their minds: Did they  _know?_

The knocker knocked again. Hands fluttering, Gwen darted to the door. She took a moment to compose herself, then opened the door.

A young maidservant stood there, looking just as uncomfortable as the other women felt. "The witchfinder wishes to speak with Lady Morgana," she announced.

Gwen somehow managed to choke out, "Why?"

Morgana's heart pounded in her ears. He knew. He knew, he knew, he knew. He knew, and he was coming to burn her.

But that was not what the maid said. "It's about Gaius."

* * *

By the time Morgana's interrogation was over, her entire body was covered in sweat. It glued her hair to the back of her neck, left her palms slick and slippery. She didn't like him at all, the witchfinder with his reptilian eyes. Even if he wasn't going after her—he was after Gaius, a thought that made bright rage flash in her belly—he could always change his mind, could always stumble across something that implicated her as a seer.

But she couldn't think about that now. First, she and Gwen had to figure out some way of saving Gaius, because it was painfully obvious that Aredian wanted the old physician dead. Why, Morgana wasn't quite certain. Everyone knew that Gaius had practiced magic before the Purge, but Uther had pardoned him and he hadn't cast a spell since. Perhaps Aredian knew that Gaius often served as the king's voice of reason, that Gaius might just be able to stand between them. Whatever. Morgana didn't particularly care. She just wanted to save him.

Upon exiting Aredian's chambers, she was unsurprised to find Gwen hovering outside the door. What did surprise her was the presence of her companion—although, if she'd been thinking more clearly, she really wouldn't have been surprised. Merlin was Gaius's ward and nephew and apprentice. Of course he'd be called for questioning.

Wait. Aredian had called  _Merlin_  for questioning. The thought brought a completely inappropriate smile to Morgana's lips. She almost wished that she could see their conversation.

Yet Merlin did not enter Aredian's interrogation room. Instead, he walked with her and Gwen. At Morgana's questioning look, the physician's ward explained, "I was the first one he talked to."

Gwen winced.

Merlin glowered at her. "If you must know, I kept the sarcasm to a minimum and went on and on about all the times Gaius has saved Uther's life and how much Uther trusts him and incidentally, Uther would not look kindly on false accusations against his friends because he doesn't really have any, and I've saved his life too. Uther's, that is. Not Gaius's."

Morgana was appalled. "You threatened him?"

Merlin sniffed. "Of course not."

"You threatened him!"

"No, I really didn't. I simply reminded him of a couple pertinent facts."

"By threatening him."

"She's right, you know," Gwen said.

By this time, they had reached Morgana's room. Merlin really ought to have left them then (actually, he technically should have gone right back to Arthur after his bout of questioning was over, but this was  _Merlin_ and nobody expected that), but instead he followed them into the room. Morgana arched her brow.

It was Gwen who answered her lady's unasked question. "I ran into him while you were with the witchfinder, and, well, I thought that since it's Gaius, Merlin would help us."

"She thought right," Merlin chirped. A sunny grin dominated his face, but it slipped away mere moments later. The expression that replaced it was cold and calculating and dangerous and not Merlin at all; it made Morgana's neck break out into goosebumps. "But I'd help even if it wasn't Gaius. Seriously, are we the only ones who see the innate problem in trusting a man who's  _paid_  to find spellbinders  _to find spellbinders_?" He snorted, rolled his eyes, Merlin once again.

"Uther clearly doesn't," Morgana grumbled.

"What do you think about framing him for theft?" Gwen asked, bringing them back onto topic. "We could plant something in his room and conveniently discover it there."

Merlin's eyes widened to enormous proportions. "So  _that's_ how those rubies got there," he breathed, grinning widely. "That was really smart, you two."

"It was Gwen's idea," Morgana told him. Her maid flushed.

"Okay. Gwen is sneakier than she looks. I'll have to remember that for next time I do something nefarious."

The girls rolled their eyes. "Gwen's sneakiness aside, do you think that that would work this time?"

Merlin tilted his head. "Well, he hasn't displayed any interest in Arthur."

Gwen giggled at that, prompting her friends to look at her oddly. "Sorry," the maid said, "it's just that if he  _had_  displayed any interest in Arthur, we wouldn't need to have this conversation because Uther would march Aredian to the borders himself."

"…Was that a suggestion?" Merlin asked, trying and failing to keep a straight face. "Because it sounds a lot more entertaining than the theft thing."

"It wasn't," Gwen assured him, but she was starting to look thoughtful.

Morgana tilted her head, deep in thought. "Am I the only one who thinks that this is too good  _not_  to use?"

"You're horrible," Merlin chuckled.

"You do realize that I was joking, right?"

"I know, Gwen. But you have to admit, it would be pretty hilarious."

"But how would we do it?" Merlin asked. "Other than carefully, I mean."

"Good question," Morgana muttered.

"My first impulse was to make it look like he'd tried to cast a love spell on Arthur," Merlin said. "Gaius says that there's a truly ridiculous amount of love spells out there. But, well, that would kill him, and I get the impression that you want him gone, not dead."

What he didn't say chilled Morgana's blood. "What?" she breathed.

Merlin looked to the floor, bangs obscuring his eyes. "If it was a choice between Gaius and Aredian…." He swallowed.

"I know," Morgana whispered.

There was a long moment of silence.

"So." Gwen's voice was too light, too loud. It didn't fool anybody, but everybody let themselves be fooled. Merlin and Morgana turned to her, brows raised in question. Gwen smiled. "So," she repeated, "how are we going to do this?"

"Carefully," Merlin instantly replied.

The women glared at him. Flushing, he held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'll be quiet now."

That wasn't going to last long, Morgana knew, but she nodded her acceptance anyways. "I can tell Uther that I've seen Aredian… ahem, gazing inappropriately at Arthur while he's training. He might believe that."

"At the very least," Gwen said, "you'll plant a seed."

"So I will, then," Morgana decided. "What then?"

"Maybe I could arrange for him to 'accidentally' see Arthur in the bath," Merlin suggested. The manservant thumbed his chin. Without a beard, he looked a bit silly doing that, but Morgana decided not to comment. "Maybe I could even do that really soon after the training session."

"No, do it right after I've gone to Uther."

"You realize that you'll have to get him onto the training field, right?" Gwen asked. "How can we do that if he spends all his time in his office?"

"Good question. Do you have any ideas?"

Gwen flushed. "The only thing I can think of right now is using Gaius as bait, but…."

"Okay," Merlin muttered. "Maybe we can come up with this bit later. What should we do after the bath thing?"

"You're not doing the bath thing," proclaimed an all-too-familiar voice.

The three conspirators jumped. Gwen dropped into a quick curtsey. Merlin adopted a highly unconvincing expression of innocence. Morgana plastered a smile onto her face. "Arthur! Hasn't anyone ever told you that it's rude to eavesdrop?"

"Hasn't anyone ever told you that it's rude to plot against my father's guests?"

Merlin and Gwen exchanged panicked glances. Morgana flushed. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Ever since Merlin started talking about my bath." Arthur raised his brows at them. His arms were folded across his chest in a gesture of forbiddance. "Why exactly did you want Aredian to see me in the bath?"

"He's going after Gaius," Merlin tried to explain.

"And  _how_  does that lead to him seeing me naked?"

"Well—"

Arthur held up a hand. "No, no, I don't actually want to know what goes on between those oversized ears of yours. What I want is for my manservant to quit his frankly disturbing little conspiracy and do his job."

"But I am doing my job," Merlin protested. "I'm protecting you! Remember what happened last time your father had 'guests'?"

The prince rolled his eyes. "Merlin, if you find evidence that he has anything to do with the Tir-mors, I'll exile him myself,  _without_  him seeing me in the bath. For now, just come with me."

Sighing, Merlin obeyed.

When they were gone, Morgana turned to face her maid. "So I guess we just have to plant money in his room, then?"

"Probably," Gwen admitted. "Arthur will be looking for… well… he won't be looking for evidence that we're trying to frame Aredian for theft."

"Probably."

"Yes, probably." She grimaced. "We really need to figure out a way to stop eavesdroppers."

"We do," Morgana agreed, because what if they'd been talking about her dreams? Well, they obviously wouldn't do that with Merlin there, but the point remained.

They spent the rest of the day deep in conversation. They talked about eavesdroppers and how to prevent them (be more careful and actually check for them), about Aredian and how to get rid of him (it really was a pity that Arthur had caught them, because they'd wanted so badly to pull off their plan), about Camelot in general.

When it was time for supper, they were all talked out. The two wandered back to the dining hall, where Aredian was seated at Uther's right hand. Arthur sat at the king's left, Merlin hovering behind him. Both looked a bit disgruntled, and Merlin (idiot boy that he was) kept shooting glares at the witchfinder.

Gaius was not present.

That was only because he didn't want to be near Aredian, though. He didn't want to spend time near the witchfinder who was so obviously trying to get him killed. That was all, that was the only reason he was gone.

Gwen glided over to Merlin, where she picked up a serving tray (an excuse, no doubt), and whispered something in his ear. Merlin growled something back, then shot his most poisonous glare yet in Aredian's direction. Gwen, stricken, gasped in horror.

"He's been taken for… more extreme questioning," Gwen whispered upon returning to her mistress's side. "He's in the dungeons."

Morgana didn't need to ask who 'he' might be.

What should she do? She couldn't just leave Gaius to rot in the cells. She had to do something, but what? Talk to Uther? If Aredian had already convinced him to imprison one of his few friends, then she doubted she could persuade him otherwise. Unless, she thought, suddenly hopeful, Uther  _wanted_ an excuse to let Gaius out, and she could give it to him. Yes. She would talk to Uther, beg him to let Gaius go, but not now, not with Aredian sitting at the king's right hand to contradict everything she had to say. She would speak with him after supper, when Aredian was elsewhere.

Morgana didn't put much on her plate. She wasn't very hungry, and she didn't want to linger here too long, not with Aredian so close and Gaius locked away. She wondered if the witchfinder knew how much he frightened her. He had to know that people were afraid of him, even innocents who had never seen a spellbinder in their lives.

The lady barely noticed when Leon entered the room. She did notice, though, when he went up to Uther and started murmuring in the king's ear. Uther listened with a steadily growing frown. His eyebrows drew together.

By the time Leon was finished saying whatever it was he had to say, half the court was watching. Many courtiers had developed a sixth sense to help them discern when Uther was angry, when he was at his most dangerous. It was a necessity of survival here in Camelot. Now they could all feel the force of his anger.

"Aredian."

"Sire?"

"Come with me. Now."

The king's tone brooked no argument, so Aredian kept his slimy words to himself. Silent and frowning, he followed the other man back to his chambers. Morgana followed at a safe distance, torn between her desire to say away from the witchfinder and her need to know what was happening.

Uther flung open the door. He and his followers filed into Aredian's chambers.

"Here it is, Sire," Leon said softly, opening a plain wooden chest, the same one that had arrived on Aredian's wagon. He reached inside, pulled an item from among the clothes and books.

Morgana's jaw sagged.

It was a staff, a slender length of wood carved with unfamiliar runes and topped with a blue crystal, identical to the staves which Aulfric and his daughter had carried.

For a long moment, nobody moved. It was as though the room itself was holding its breath.

It was Uther who broke the silence. "Arrest him."

Leon stepped towards Aredian, a grim smile on his face. "Of course, Sire."

But the witchfinder was faster than he appeared. One moment, he was gazing at Leon in blank shock. The next, he had pulled a knife from… somewhere, Morgana wasn't quite sure where… and pressed it against the lady's throat. "I think not."

"Unhand her," Uther snarled. His face had gone very white, though whether that was from fear or rage Morgana couldn't tell. She was more focused on the cold steel pressing against her throat.

"No. Not until you've given me a fast horse and a thousand coins of gold, and your oath to not follow me."

Uther's eyes flashed. "You conspired with those who sought to kill my son, and now you hold my ward hostage!  _No_."

Aredian shrugged. The dagger pressed against Morgana's throat, digging into the skin but not yet cutting. She held her breath, tried to shrink away from it, but the witchfinder held her tight.

The tension lay heavy in the room, like how the air grew heavy and charged moments before a lightning bolt struck. Every eye was on Aredian and the hostage he held.

And then he wasn't holding her anymore, but staggering like a drunk, the knife tumbling to the floor. Morgana jerked away, almost running backwards. Aredian grabbed at her, his hands like claws, but he missed.

Gwen lifted the heavy serving tray and hit him again. Her eyes were wide and bright with fear, but her jaw was set and her hands didn't tremble.

Aredian grabbed his knife, spun to—attack, run, Morgana didn't know and would never find out—but then Arthur was there, his sword shining, and Aredian's bleeding corpse dropped to the floor.

"Are you all right?" Gwen asked, her face still pale.

Morgana forced a shaky smile. "I am.  _Thank you._ "

Gwen smiled back, and though it was just as wan as Morgana's own, there was genuine affection there, affection and friendship and protectiveness.

"Any time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Morgana is experiencing is probably what the average person feels during a Season 1 or Season 2 episode: nervous anticipation, outright fear, vaguely confused bemusement as things apparently solve themselves.
> 
> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Merlin Totally Doesn't Threaten a Professional Witchfinder, Just Reminds Him of a Couple Pertinent Facts"


	25. The Vault

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin adds to his repertoire of illegal activities.

Chapter XXV: The Vault

"Do you know offhand if Uther's treasure vault is enchanted?"

Blaise was, Merlin suspected, used to random questions like that one by now. The druid didn't even bat an eyelash, though he arched his brow in a way that made the younger spellbinder wonder if he and Gaius were related somehow.

"Why do you need to know?"

So Merlin told him about Aredian the witchfinder, about Arthur's promise to banish him and Merlin's desperate scheme to save Gaius and how that had sort of backfired, but Gaius was safe and that was what really mattered, right? He didn't tell his tutor about the nagging feeling of guilt, the conviction that he should have done more to ensure Aredian's survival. After all, as he kept telling himself (again and again as he'd tossed and turned in his bed, unable to sleep from the guilt of another life on his hands, even if it was the life of a vile parasite who burned and tortured others to survive), Aredian was a killer. Had he lived, he would have gone elsewhere, a place without secret warlocks to drive him off, and killed someone—several someones—who couldn't defend themselves.

Blaise listened to his student's tale without comment, tilting his head whenever he required further explanation and nodding in response to Merlin's infrequent questions (most of which were variations of, "You understand, right?"). The druid was a quiet man. In many ways, he was one of the quietest Merlin had ever met. Blaise could get quite wordy in his lectures, but the rest of the time he preferred to keep his silence. He didn't speak until Merlin was finished.

"I fail to see how, exactly, this tale leads to questions about Uther's treasure vault."

"Well," Merlin explained, "after Aredian was dead, Uther ordered the knights to go through his things and to bring them to the vault for quarantine. They actually did find a couple books of magic and some bracelets inscribed with runes. I had nothing to do with those, though. I think he might have used them to frame people as spellbinders, or maybe he kept them as trophies."

Blaise waited for him to get back on topic, as calm and patient as always. Merlin obliged.

"They burned the books, but the bracelets and my staff went into the treasure vault. That reminded me that there were all sorts of things Uther has locked up in his vault that he's been using to hunt and kill our kind. Gaius and Kilgharrah told me a while ago about one of them, a horn called Dragonbinder, and Uther used that to wipe out the dragons and dragonlords." He shuddered at the thought. "I would really rather  _not_ have him have anything like that."

His tutor nodded thoughtfully. "I remember that he used to have chains that could bind our people."

Merlin grinned, pleased to have good news. "Those are actually gone now," he said. "Apparently some of them got destroyed during the Purge—the Slaughter, I mean—and Kilgharrah and I destroyed the rest of them. Remember how I told you he was chained up in the caves beneath Camelot? Apparently, Uther had every magic-restraining chain in the kingdom gathered up and reforged into that one. After I released Kilgharrah, he melted the lot of them."

Blaise beamed, his dark, long face lighting up like a sunbeam. "That is wonderful news, Merlin. My people have long wondered what happened to those restraints. Are they truly all gone?"

"At least in Camelot. I think that some of the other kingdoms have a few left, but I think that a lot of them got destroyed during the Pu—Slaughter."

"Call it the Purge," Blaise advised. "If you were to slip up within Camelot's walls…."

Merlin flinched at the thought, but nodded obediently all the same. "Why is that? I mean," he clarified, "how do those things get destroyed? Other than dragonfire, that is."

Blaise slowed almost to a halt, adopting what Merlin now recognized as his lecturing pose. "It depends on the type of chain. There is an impermanent sort that, during its short lifetime, can withstand any force from within. Before the Slaughter, those chains were conjured for the transport of magical prisoners and allowed to fade from existence once their purpose was served. The other type is the sort that Uther and his ilk would use, for while it is not as strong as the first kind, endures much longer. That sort of chain is not conjured but enchanted. It does not need a spellbinder to maintain its strength, but it can be broken by anyone more powerful than whoever enchanted the metal."

Merlin frowned. "Then why couldn't Kilgharrah break free?"

"I suspect because Uther used  _all_  of his chains to bind him. The combined strength of all those spellbinders would have been enough to restrain even a dragon."

Goosebumps broke out over Merlin's skin. "But…." He shuddered. "But I broke them."

"You and Kilgharrah destroyed them together," Blaise corrected. "Did you feel him add his magic to yours when you struck the chain?"

"No," Merlin admitted, "but I don't know what that feels like, so he probably did and I just didn't realize."

His tutor nodded. "I think you're right. Your combined power overcame the magic in the chains, and once the chains themselves were broken, Kilgharrah could destroy them completely."

The younger spellbinder nodded, accepting that as the most likely explanation, and returned to the original subject. "But even without the chains and Dragonbinder, Uther still has a lot of dangerous stuff in his possession, and considering that he has a history of using those things for genocide, I'd like to take at least some of them away. How likely is it that the treasure vault is enchanted?"

"Quite likely, I'm afraid," Blaise admitted. "You know that Camelot was built in large part by Cornelius Sigan. I don't doubt that he placed safeguards around the castle."

"That's what I thought," Merlin sighed. "Any idea what those might be?"

"No, but I can teach you the spells required to expose any magical safeguards Sigan left behind. Shall that be our lesson for the day?"

"Yeah."

So Blaise spent the next hour or so lecturing on the basic spells that could detect traps and safeguards and wards. He made sure to remind his impetuous pupil that he was by no means teaching him every last spell that could detect other spells, nor could these spells detect everything that might be there. Sigan had been a powerful mage, and it was entirely possible that he had created his own magical defenses, enchantments that no one else had ever learned. Still, if Merlin were to perform this set of spells before attempting entry, he  _should_  detect the vast majority of magics that Sigan had left behind. He just had to remember to be cautious.

Merlin thought that Blaise sounded an awful lot like Gaius, but he didn't say so. Blaise had never said anything outright, but his eyes narrowed ever so slightly whenever Merlin talked about the man who had given up magic to remain in Uther Pendragon's service, so Merlin tried to not mention his uncle.

"So I can break in tonight, maybe," he said as they approached the little hut Blaise was using as his home. Their arms were full of herbs, as was Merlin's pack, since he used 'collecting herbs for Gaius' as an excuse to visit his druidic tutor, and he needed to bring back some plants if that excuse were to hold water, so they actually  _did_  collect herbs while in class. Merlin didn't mind. It was rather nice, really, to wander the forest with Blaise.

That, and the druid was much better at finding the required plants than his pupil.

They would have to come up with another excuse once winter fell, but for now, Merlin intended to take full advantage of Blaise's aid.

Blaise frowned at his pupil, the thick brows above his deep green eyes drawing together. Merlin blinked at him, wondering what he'd said wrong. "I thought you agreed that Uther shouldn't have access to all those powerful artifacts?"

"He should not," Blaise said, "but what, exactly, do you plan on doing tonight, Merlin?"

The warlock still didn't understand (hadn't he already given his plan?), but he answered anyways. "I'm going into the vault, casting those spells you just taught me, and taking out all the dangerous stuff so Uther doesn't have it anymore."

"What of the guards?"

Merlin laughed. Then he realized that Blaise was actually serious and laughed some more. Finally, he managed to choke out, "Trust me, the guards won't be a problem."

Blaise still looked doubtful.

"The guards are completely incompetent," Merlin assured him. "But I was still going to put them under a sleep spell."

He knew no fewer than four sleep spells now. Blaise had insisted. He'd insisted on other spells, too: incantations to unlock doors and manacles, to stifle his footfalls and make him blend into the shadows, to go unseen and unheard and unnoticed at all, to detect drugs in food and drink, to stop pain for a few essential minutes.

Spells to escape from prison were the first that every young druid learned, and Blaise had been determined to impart that knowledge before starting anything else. Merlin had replied that if he knew teleportation, he could bypass everything else, but Blaise was adamant that Merlin needed more experience with his magic before he tried something that complex (Merlin did not agree, but Blaise was the one with the magical knowledge and he could hardly force the man to talk).

"Let us say that you get past the guards and whatever enchantments Sigan or other Camelot spellbinders may have left. Let us say that you empty the vault over the course of a single night. Where are you going to put all the items? How will you know which ones are safe to handle? What will Uther do when morning dawns and he learns that his possessions have been stolen?"

"…Oh." Merlin flushed from the bottom of his chin to the tips of his ears. "I didn't really think of that."

"That is why you have me," his tutor teased. "But you do need answers to those questions before you barge in, Merlin Emrys."

"Yeah," he admitted, "you're probably right." The warlock tilted his head, his gaze going distant. "Um… I guess I could hide the items in Kilgharrah's old cave. At least temporarily. I'd have to find another place for them eventually, but the cave is really good for smuggling and other activities of dubious legality." He grinned, but the smile faded as another thought occurred. "But I'd probably have to take lots of trips, wouldn't I? And that would increase the chance that I'd be noticed."

"You would have to take multiple trips regardless," Blaise pointed out. "I do not know how many items are in Uther's possession, but he certainly has more than an armful."

"I don't know either," Merlin confessed. "I guess I'll just have to—" He frowned, brow knitting together. "But I'd have to do it in one night, or else someone would notice when morning comes. Unless…. Is there any way to make them not realize that I've taken anything?"

"Is there?" Blaise asked.

"There is!" Merlin exclaimed. He called upon his magic, and suddenly a young man with a heart-shaped face and golden eyes stood in his place. The warlock maintained the illusion for mere moments before allowing it to dissipate, but he'd made his point. "Is there any way to make illusions permanent?"

"Of course. I shall teach you tomorrow."

Merlin didn't understand. "But why not today? I want those things out of Uther's hands as soon as possible."

"But how will you know which items to take first?" Blaise queried.

"I don't know," Merlin had to confess. "My staff, I guess, and whatever's near it."

But Blaise was shaking his head. "Since your staff is the newest addition, they will be paying extra attention to it. Leave it and the items around it for later, perhaps a fortnight or so."

"Okay," Merlin murmured. "But if I can't take my staff, what  _should_ I take first? You obviously have some idea."

"I do," Blaise admitted, "but I would be a poor teacher indeed if I never made you think."

His pupil nodded. "Okay. Just give me a few minutes to think it over."

They entered Blaise's little home in silence. The druid had found an abandoned hut in the middle of the forest, three miles from the nearest road and almost four from the city walls. He and Merlin usually met in a small clearing halfway between Camelot and the house, but today their herb-gathering had led them so close to the domicile that Blaise had invited Merlin in for a cup of tea. They drank that tea without speaking, for Merlin was still thinking hard.

"…The inventory."

Merlin's voice was unnaturally loud after their long and comfortable silence. He almost jumped at the sound of it, then grinned ruefully. That was rather embarrassing. Good thing Blaise hadn't noticed. The druid was smiling at him, waiting patiently for more of an explanation.

"There's got to be an inventory, right? I mean, it would be stupid to have a bunch of magical items lying around without any way of telling which would explode or turn you into a turnip or whatever, so they've got to have a list somewhere. Except—" And here his smile faded. "—except I don't think I'm good enough with illusions to make an entire inventory. What if someone decides to read it or write in it while I have the real thing?"

"Yes," Blaise agreed, "what if?"

Merlin glared at him and wondered if Blaise and Kilgharrah had ever met. He wouldn't be surprised if the dragon had taught the druid how to be annoyingly cryptic. He really wouldn't put it past the blasted lizard. He could just see them (and Gaius too) getting together conspiring to make his life difficult.

Then the answer came to him, so blindingly obvious that he could have hit himself. "I have to make a copy!"

Blaise beamed at him. "Exactly!"

"So how do I make that copy? There's a spell for it, right?"

The druid's smile only widened. "Of course."

* * *

Late that night, Merlin stood between two illusory guards (the real ones were fast asleep in one of Camelot's many conveniently located alcoves, where Merlin had covered them with a blanket of shadows and an actual blanket, because they looked cold) and stared with some trepidation at the door before him. It didn't look like much, but there was an extremely high possibility that it was enchanted. Time for the first of Blaise's spells.

Nothing.

Merlin's brow furrowed in confusion. He couldn't detect any preventative enchantments on the room itself. Oh, there was magic aplenty inside that room, as well as wards to keep the contents' magic from leaking all over the citadel, but nothing that would keep an intruder from breaking in.

He cast his spells again, just to be certain, but the result was the same. Merlin stood at the threshold, chewing his lip and remembering what Blaise had said about the possibility of Cornelius Sigan inventing his own spells. Should he risk it? He probably shouldn't, but….

Merlin looked at the unconscious guards. They wouldn't be relieved for hours, but Merlin was right here right now and it seemed a pity to leave without anything to show for it. He probably wouldn't disintegrate or anything if he just popped in and copied the inventory. It wasn't like he'd be taking anything from the vault. And, he realized, maybe the inventory could tell him if there were any protections he had missed!

Swallowing hard, Merlin stepped into the treasure vault.

Absolutely nothing happened. It was very anticlimactic.

The vault was full of bric-a-brac, rocks and books and a couple weapons, with stranger things lying on the shelves. A few staves, including the one Merlin had taken from Aulfric, leaned against the bare gray walls. He ignored them, focusing instead on the books.

Gibberish, gibberish, gibberish in Latin, gibberish in a third language that Merlin didn't recognize…. That shelf was clearly all spell books. Merlin turned his attention to another row, scanning the titles for anything that looked like an inventory.

There it was. Grinning, the warlock pulled the thick inventory from its resting place. He squatted, placing the inventory on the floor. Then he reached into his pack and withdrew a collection of loosely bound papers, all blank and ready to be filled.

Magically copying the inventory took a bit longer than he'd expected, but soon enough he made his way back to his chambers (after removing the sleeping spells from the guards, of course, not to mention their illusory doppelgangers). Merlin hid the stolen information beneath the loose floorboard where he kept his magic book and, in better times, Aulfric's staff. Then he removed his boots and curled up for a nice night's sleep.

Arthur ran him ragged the next day. The prat was grouchy over how long Merlin had been out gathering herbs the day before, and he was doubly annoyed when he learned that his manservant intended to repeat his actions that day. But, as Merlin pointed out, they had to stock up on things for the winter, because it would be a lot harder to gather plants then. So, grumbling, the prince gave his grudging permission.

Well, he theoretically gave his permission. The reality was a bit different, for Merlin's list of chores was ridiculously long even by Arthur's standards. He was forced to use magic (don't tell Gaius) just to complete them a couple hours before sundown, which would give him barely time to get to Blaise, much less discuss his next move and learn the necessary spells, before he had to return to the castle to get Arthur ready for bed.

He ran through Gaius's chambers with only a shouted, half-coherent greeting for the old physician, taking the stairs to his own room two at a time. Gaius said something back to him, but Merlin's door was already swinging shut and he was grabbing at the floorboard.

Except his new book wasn't there.

"That's what I was trying to tell you," Gaius's voice sighed. Merlin turned to see his mentor standing in the door, an amused little smile on his face. "I looked through the inventory, and I have a few suggestions as to what you should take first."

"Like what?" asked Merlin, who hadn't had the opportunity to even look at it.

"The Crystal of Neahtid, for one," was the physician's prompt response. "The Raven's Key. There are also a half-dozen or so books deemed too dangerous for the royal library." His gaze became stern. "Though you will  _not_  be attempting those spells without permission from myself and from Blaise, do you understand?"

"Yes, Gaius."

The physician did not look overly convinced, but he allowed his ward to leave.

Blaise agreed with Gaius's suggestions, much to his own surprise. He even agreed that Merlin should not, SHOULD NOT snoop around inside the spell books. Merlin tried asking if the replacement illusions would require him to create illusory text as well, but Blaise had pointed out that his replacements would be just that: illusions. If someone tried to open them, the image would disperse. There was no need for him to recreate the text.

But, the druid added with a wry smile, it was a very good try.

That night's break-in was not quite as uneventful as the first time. Oh, Merlin incapacitated the guards easily enough (it still made him smile to think that Blaise had actually been concerned about them), and there was nothing to prevent him from taking the items right off the shelves. He didn't even have trouble with creating illusory duplicates.

It was the Crystal of Neahtid that gave him problems.

The Crystal didn't look like much, but it radiated power even through the warded box Merlin brought to hide it in. Perhaps, he thought with some trepidation, he should have enchanted the container himself rather than let Blaise do it. The druid was skilled, but he wasn't powerful. His wards might not have existed for all the good they did, and it was getting harder and harder to resist its call.

He almost jogged through the castle. Sweat beaded on his brow, trickled down his forehead and into his eyes.

The warlock ran full-out once he reached Kilgharrah's cave. One hand grabbed desperately for the dragon's scale, and he called his friend's name three times as he sprinted. He wasn't sure how much longer he could resist the Crystal's call.

Kilgharrah hadn't arrived by the time Merlin got through the cave. He stared anxiously at the sky, shifting from one foot to another and trying very hard to not think about the thing in his box. The Raven's Key wasn't giving him this much trouble, nor were the three books he'd taken and put into his unwarded pack. He didn't know if he should be grateful for that or not. Perhaps if the other items had begged for use, they would have cancelled each other out.

Finally it was too much for him. With shaking hands, the warlock withdrew the Crystal of Neahtid and gazed into its translucent depths.

Images danced before him, almost too quick to discern. Arthur in a crown. Morgana at a fork in the road. Gwen approaching the throne. Uther's face all twisted with rage. His parents holding hands.

Faster and faster the images came, faster and stranger and more disturbing. Two birds locked in battle. A flaming sword. A tower filled with screams. A staff topped with a yellow crystal. A luminous cave. A huge white egg. A battle among the trees, where men fought and died beneath the banners of their kings. A city on an island. Himself, years older, his eyes ablaze with gold, hand thrust out against an army. Himself again, a fishing net in his hands. A huge stone circle. A woman melting into water.

And then there was nothing.

Only the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Blaise is Enlightened as to the Utter Incompetence of Camelot's Guardsmen"
> 
> So we've finally met the oft-mentioned druidic tutor. Blaise is an actual character from the myths, where he was portrayed as a Christian priest. When Merlin's mother (in this version, a princess-turned-nun instead of a peasant woman) became pregnant from an incubus, she went to Blaise for help. Blaise figured out that the kid's father was a demon of some sort, in some versions the Devil himself (and wouldn't THAT have been a plot twist for the show!), and that the demons wanted him to be the Antichrist and usher in the Apocalypse. It's thanks to Blaise that Merlin-in-the-myths didn't go over to the dark side. He gave the mother a bunch of instructions (mostly prayers and such) to purify the baby and, when Merlin was born, Blaise helped raise and tutor him. It's the tutoring bit that I'm concerned with here, obviously. Maybe I'll work in the stops-the-Antichrist bit with Morgana and/or Mordred's arcs...
> 
> -Antares


	26. Winter in Camelot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time passes. Not much happens, until it does.

Chapter XXVI: Winter in Camelot

Merlin woke to a throbbing head and the taste of blood on his tongue. He lay motionless for a few long minutes, trying to figure out how he'd gotten into this (it was probably Arthur's fault, he reflected sourly) and what, exactly, 'this' was. Only when memory returned did he groan and open his eyes.

"Hello, young warlock," drawled a blessedly familiar voice. "Would you care to explain why you have possession of a highly powerful magical artifact that can be  _extremely dangerous_  for untrained novices to use?"

Merlin groaned again. He tried to tell his friend that it was a long story, but he slurred so badly that it came out like "ishalonstoree."

"I beg your pardon?"

The dragon sounded so prim that the warlock cracked a grin. Somehow, that made his head feel a little better. Still, he swallowed several times before repeating, "It's a long story."

"Stories are meant to be told."

"Ihavva headache," Merlin moaned. Slowly and carefully, he maneuvered himself into a sitting position. The effort left him a bit dizzy, but it was worth it, for his head was already beginning to clear.

It took him awhile to explain why, exactly, he had absconded with the Crystal of Neahtid (which, he noticed with some relief, Kilgharrah had cradled protectively between his clawed forelegs) and the other contents of Uther's treasure vault. Much to his surprise, the story made Kilgharrah smile.

"The druid is a good influence," he proclaimed.

"You think so?" Merlin arched a brow. "I thought you'd still be lecturing me."

"Why should I?" the dragon asked. "You asked for a second opinion before going through with your reckless but ultimately intelligent plan, and rather than spoon-feeding you the answers you sought, Blaise made you reason your own way out. Iseldir chose wisely when he made Blaise your mentor."

"Well," Merlin said, still a bit bemused, "I thought you'd lecture me about the plan itself and how stupid I was to grab something so powerful on my first go."

"Do you want to be lectured?" Kilgharrah queried, amusement dancing in his amber eyes.

"No!" Merlin shook his head too vigorously. The ache between his temples spiked. Wincing, he rubbed the places above his ears.

"It is not your fault that the druid's wards could not contain the Crystal," Kilgharrah informed him. "You ought to make your own warded box, but it is extremely easy to misjudge the relative strengths of two artifacts that have never interacted with each other." He shrugged. "Have you learned from your mistake?"

"Well, yes…."

Kilgharrah nodded as though that settled the matter. "If you make this same mistake again, young warlock, then I will give you that lecture you desire. Since it arose from incorrect knowledge, though, I will overlook your error in favor of asking what you want me to do with the Crystal and the other artifacts."

Merlin decided to not look a gift horse in the mouth. "I originally thought that we could maybe store them in the cave, but then I thought that someone might find them there. I mean, it's not exactly likely. They still haven't noticed that you're gone, and you're a lot bigger than anything in Uther's treasure vault. But if they ever did notice you're missing, Uther will probably order a thorough search of the entire cave. Then they'd definitely find the magical artifacts and I'd be right back where I started, except Uther would up security, I'd have to find another hiding place, and there would probably be another witch hunt like the one that brought in Aredian. And Kilgharrah? Witch hunts are bad, so it's not appropriate to smile like that."

The dragon's smile didn't fade at all. If anything, it grew. "I am not pleased at the thought of a witch hunt, Merlin, but I am pleased with you."

The warlock frowned, confused. "But why?"

Kilgharrah chuckled softly. "I am certain that if you think about it, you can figure it out. For now, though, I believe that I shall bring these artifacts to my own abode. There are many hidden nooks and crannies in the place I make my home, and it is difficult for humans to reach. Unless, of course, you had another idea?"

"Actually, I was sort of hoping that you'd volunteer to do exactly what you just volunteered to do. Thank you, by the way."

Kilgharrah extended his neck until his face was only a foot away from Merlin's. "Do not thank me. I am glad to help you. If anything, I should thank you."

Merlin flushed. "Well, you're welcome, I guess," he mumbled. "Do you think that, since you're here right now, we could maybe make a schedule? I was thinking that I could do my break-ins on Tuesday nights, stash the artifacts in the cave, and give them to you with your weekly sheep. You're smiling again, by the way."

"Why should I not smile?"

"I have a headache, you know," Merlin grumbled. "Would it kill you to have mercy on the guy with the headache and speak plainly for once?"

"No," the dragon chuckled, "but it would make my life rather less enjoyable."

Merlin, like the wise and powerful warlock he was, stuck out his tongue.

Kilgharrah flung back his head and laughed.

* * *

Gaius's lecture about how reckless Merlin had been more than made up from the lack of rebuke from his scaly friend. It also kept him up later than he wanted, so he spent the next day in an exhausted fugue. The next day wasn't much better, but he got through it, and the next day, and the day after that, recovering a bit more each time he crawled into his bed.

The days settled into an easy routine: wake Arthur, complete his ridiculous list of chores, spend the afternoon in the forest with Blaise, get Arthur through supper (and usually receive even more chores, because the princely prat just loved making things difficult for him), spend a few hours doing those chores, and finally learn about healing from Gaius until it was time for him to sleep. Oh, his routine varied a bit according to the day of the week, as he had to dispose of Kilgharrah's sheep, break into the vault, and take magical theory lessons with Leon and Arthur, and sometimes Arthur dragged him on yet another hunting trip, and sometimes Uther would send the both of them on completely unsuccessful raids, but overall, the routine varied very little.

Then the leaves fell and frost dusted the ground. Fortunately the harvest was in by then, and thanks to Blaise, Merlin and Gaius had a good-sized stock of herbs. The weather freed up quite a bit of Merlin's time—or it did until Arthur realized that he could get more work out of his manservant.

In Camelot, starting in the summer but continuing through the winter, he learned to multitask and prioritize, things he'd never had to do on the farm. Back in Ealdor, he'd only really had to work out in the fields. It was hard work, to be sure, but very monotonous and not exactly mentally draining. In Camelot, though, he had to make the most of each minute. He started bringing Gaius-approved books with him to Arthur's room, where he could sneak in a page or two before being reassigned. He would polish Arthur's possessions (mostly armor and weapons, but occasionally buttons or boots or some other random item) in the physician's chambers, listening to Gaius talk about healing and herbs. And yes, he would use magic to speed up some of his smellier jobs—but only after double-checking that no one was nearby.

Blaise's tutoring changed. Before, Merlin had met him almost daily on herb-gathering expeditions. Now, though, it was too cold for that, so they needed another excuse to meet. Blaise eventually solved the problem by making fortnightly trips into Camelot. He would pose as one of Gaius's patients, a farmer from an outlying village who needed medicine that only the court physician was skilled enough to make. He would spend the night in the castle, going with Merlin into Kilgharrah's old cave to practice sorcery without the risk of anyone seeing them. Then he would quiz his pupil on that fortnight's assigned readings and assign new material for their next class.

But as the weeks turned into months, Merlin found himself getting faster at everything. It had taken him awhile, probably due to the sheer volume of information being dumped into his head (Latin, Greek, spells, magical creatures, how to be a decent servant, how to put up with Arthur, a few of Camelot's laws, history, prophecies, even a bit of druidic culture), but now, things were finally getting easier. He understood every term that came out of Gaius's mouth and no longer had to interrupt him with questions and requests for clarification anywhere near as often.

Much to Merlin's surprise and relief, there was very little trouble in Camelot for most of the winter. He heard absolutely nothing from Nimueh and, in February, broached the topic with Gaius.

"Do you think she's given up?" he asked hopefully.

"I'm sorry?" Gaius looked up from his book. The reading glasses perched on his nose shifted slightly as his eyebrow began its dreaded ascent.

"Nimueh, I mean," Merlin clarified. "Do you think that she's decided to stop attacking Camelot? Because we haven't heard from her in months." He thought back to his last meeting with the sorceress. "In fact, I don't think I've seen her since before I met Father. Do you think she changed her mind?"

Gaius didn't hesitate to shake his head. "I knew Nimueh before the Purge," he said. "Surrender is not in her nature."

"Maybe not surrender," Merlin said, "but maybe she changed her mind about what methods to use. Maybe she's going to do what the druids are doing and publically use magic for good."

"I doubt that very much, Merlin," the old physician sighed. "I wish that I could share your optimism, but unless she has died in some freak accident, she is out there somewhere plotting her next move."

He sounded so certain that his ward deflated. "Oh," the warlock sighed, shoulders slumping. "I guess I'd thought that maybe she…." He sighed. "But I guess not." He swallowed hard, a sudden thought making his heart race. "Gaius. When she does make her next move, it's going to be something really big and public and obviously magical, right?"

"Probably," the physician acquiesced. "It would certainly fit her past behavioral patterns."

It would; that was why Merlin had thought of it. The afanc had affected all of Camelot. The griffin, which Nimueh had helped direct towards the citadel, had devastated an entire village before moving on. Even when she'd poisoned Merlin, she had chosen to act during a highly public peace gathering.

"How badly do you think that Nimueh's next move will affect what the druids are doing?"

Gaius closed his book, his blue eyes going distant as he mulled it over.

The druids had done as Merlin—as Emrys—had asked. Slowly at first, then more and more often, reports trickled into the citadel of druids magically healing the victims of bandit attacks, asking nothing in return but a kind word or two. Others had shown up with missing children or livestock or the occasional village simpleton, not using any magic but with their clothing proudly proclaiming their heritage. A town in Gedref had had problems with vermin; one day, with no explanation, the insects and rodents had just vanished, and local boys had found signs of a camp in the woods nearby. A group of robed women had towed in a ship from a storm using only their voices.

They were fighting back. After twenty years of persecution, twenty years of hiding and ducking their heads and separating themselves from the wider world, the druids were finally standing up and saying, "Enough. Remember who we are."

And every time they saved a life, every time they cleansed a barn of vermin or fixed a drying well, every time they used magic for good, word of their deeds spread. Slowly at first, quietly, for the people who had encountered druids were afraid that Uther would hurt them just for that brief association. But they whispered the tales to their friends, to their kin, and they murmured it to their friends and kin and friends' friends, and then people were telling it in taverns, names and places safely blurred into anonymity, details fading but the core of the stories remaining as clear and bright as ever: the druids were using magic for good. At the risk of their own lives, they were spiting Uther's decree and helping, healing, saving the people of Camelot and beyond.

The king was furious, of course. He sent his knights to investigate, prepared hunts and raids whenever he heard that the druids had been active. Thus far, though, his attempts at hunting them down and enacting some cruel retaliation had been completely unsuccessful. There were several reasons for this, Uther's councilors pointed out: knights were hardly inconspicuous, druids had had years of experience hiding in the woods, and they had  _magic._ No wonder the hounds kept losing the trail or the knights mysteriously fell asleep.

The councilors did not say that Arthur didn't put his heart into the raids he was supposed to lead, that he gave the sites a thorough examination with a pensive frown on his face, brow wrinkled in thought. They didn't know about that, but Merlin did, and every time he saw Arthur thinking about his father's treatment of the druids, every time he heard the prince ask an open-minded question about magic, he had to fight back a smile.

Gaius sighed heavily, drawing Merlin out of his reverie. "Whatever Nimueh does, it will only harm your efforts. The only thing I don't know is how much."

"Do you think it will be a lot or a little?"

"I don't know," the physician reiterated. "Don't look at me like that. You know I'm not being deliberately difficult. I just don't know what Nimueh will do, so I can't predict the public's response. If, say, she sends another creature like the griffin, I imagine that the repercussions would be fairly severe. But if her next attack is more like the afanc, something that could spring from a non-magical source, then it wouldn't be too bad at all."

Merlin sighed heavily. His good mood had entirely evaporated. "And even if she does something not so blatantly magical, she might not be so obliging next time." His face hardened. "I have to stop her, Gaius."

"Perhaps you should ask Kilgharrah."

"I have. She's been avoiding him."

"Smart of her," Gaius muttered.

"I don't imagine it's very difficult," Merlin said. "For Nimueh, I mean, not Kilgharrah. It's obviously difficult for him. But Nimueh is a lot smaller than him, so she can go into buildings and whatnot. Not to mention that she could see a great bloody dragon pretty easily, and Kilgharrah can only really go out at night." He frowned. "Which makes me wonder if she let him find her that first time."

"It is entirely possible," Gaius admitted. "Wanting to meet her adversary is certainly in keeping with the Nimueh that I knew."

Merlin was silent for a long while. Finally he let loose another sigh, as heavy and bone-rattling as his last. "I hate having to wait for her to make the next move," the warlock confessed. "I wish I was better at scrying, but I can barely even check up on my parents, and even then, the images are still really blurry."

"It's remarkable that you've been able to learn scrying at all," Gaius reminded him. "You'll get better with time and practice, Merlin, the same as you would with any other skill. But speaking of Hunith and Balinor, how are they doing?"

As always, the mention of his parents living together made Merlin smile. "Quite well," he responded. "Their last letter said that even Old Man Simmons had stopped snooping around, so that means that pretty much everyone in Ealdor accepts 'Bael.'"

Hunith and Balinor had, for obvious reasons, needed to invent some sort of origin story for the latter. They eventually decided that they would present Merlin's father to Ealdor as Bael, an escaped slave from Mercia, who had impregnated Hunith on his first disastrous escape attempt. After being recaptured, Bael had been watched like a hawk, but he'd managed, after years and years of hard work, to save enough coin to buy his freedom. Upon discovering that the rest of his family had passed away, Bael had come to Hunith, not knowing about their son, just hoping that she might help him establish himself somewhere for old time's sake. Learning about Merlin, though, and hearing that she was unmarried still, Bael had decided to remain in Ealdor (with occasional trips to Camelot, of course).

More than a few people had been skeptical at first. They had long believed that Merlin was some woodland bandit's rape-spawned get, not the product of tragic, forbidden love. But they'd come around these past few months as they got to know more about 'Bael,' and now quite a few of the village women had elevated their love story to something of a fairytale. The men had taken a bit longer to come around, but Balinor was a hard worker and usually polite to them, with a wry sense of humor that people of both genders appreciated. Not to mention that he was obviously Merlin's father—they could all see the resemblance—and Hunith wouldn't let someone who had raped her live in her home. Old Man Simmons had been the last holdout, and now that even he was convinced, Balinor should be completely safe.

"Good," Gaius declared. He frowned suddenly. "Say, Merlin, when were you supposed to meet Arthur?"

The younger man blanched, which was answer enough. "Bye, Gaius!" he cried, scurrying out the door.

Arthur had already begun preparing for his coming-of-age ceremony. It was scheduled for his twenty-first birthday, which was about three months away, and Merlin was already dreading it. It wasn't that he wasn't happy for Arthur or that he didn't want the man to be officially recognized as Crown Prince of Camelot, it was just that all the work involved with such a momentous occasion would make life among the servants hell.

The prince rolled his eyes when Merlin arrived. "Punctual as ever, I see," he observed dryly.

"I was helping Gaius," Merlin began, but Arthur waved his protests away.

"And now you'll be helping me." He gestured to a pile of papers on his desk. "I need a sigil."

"But doesn't Camelot already have one?" Merlin asked, frowning.

"We do," Arthur confirmed. "The gold dragon on a field of red. But quite a few noblemen have personal sigils as well as the house arms. As  _official_  crown prince, I need a sigil for myself, not just for the Pendragons. And before you say anything," he added, seeing his servant open his mouth, "it's not going to be a merlin or any other sort of bird."

The manservant sniffed. "I wasn't going to suggest that, you dolt, and anyways, the falcon would be a terrible representative for you. I was going to ask what Uther's is."

"A lion. He doesn't use it much, though, I think because he was my grandfather's third son. Why would a falcon be a bad choice?"

"Well, think about it. They have keen, clear eyes and see things from above, so they represent clarity of vision. They soar in the heavens, so they're close to the gods. And they're fast, so they represent swiftness, which you most certainly are not. And for some reason, they also are associated with boldness."

"…And why, exactly, does that not describe me?"

"Arthur," Merlin said, "you're hardly the most clear-sighted or… swift person in the world."

"I am extremely clear-sighted," the prince protested. "And I'll have you know that I'm very fast. Haven't you seen me on the battlefield?"

"If you were swift or clear-sighted, you'd know what I'm talking about," Merlin retorted, a grin tugging at his lips.

Eventually, they narrowed it down to a lion like Uther's or a bear. "Go with the bear," Merlin advised. "I mean, they're covered in hair, extremely grouchy when they're awakened, and not quite so swift as us falcons."

" _Thank you,_  Merlin."

"Anytime, sire."

"The bear symbolizes a mighty warrior!"

"If you say so."

"I do say so. So does Geoffrey!"

"Well, I can't argue with Geoffrey. The bear, then?" Merlin asked, hoping very much that Arthur would agree.

After all, lions were Uther's symbol.

"Yes," Arthur decided, "because I worked long and hard to become a good fighter, and I want the enemies of Camelot to know that I'll protect my own."

"That, and all the other things I just mentioned."

"Merlin!"

"Shutting up, Sir Bear."

Arthur just sighed.

Merlin was right, of course, in that things got busier and busier as the ceremony approached.  _Everything_  had to be cleaned, then cleaned again, then cleaned a third time and touched up just for good measure. Dignitaries from around the kingdom began pouring in, knights and lords and ladies. The castle was fuller than Merlin had ever seen it, and of course, that many people made a  _mess_. They became so busy that even Morgana, who was in charge of seating and housing arrangements, didn't need sleeping draughts.

The fuss was enough to make Merlin forget about everything. He even forgot Kilgharrah's sheep, though Gaius retained enough presence of mind to remind him, and about Nimueh, who had yet to make her move.

That was a very stupid mistake. After all, Camelot was full of strangers, full of people to see and spread the news. If Merlin had been thinking, he would have realized that the ceremony was too juicy a prize for Nimueh, with her love of theatrics, to resist. But he didn't think of that, didn't think of anything but getting the blasted ritual over with so he could catch up on his sleep.

So he was just as surprised as everyone else when the mounted knight burst through the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Lectures Are Accepted as Part of the Natural Order of the Universe, and Their Absence, While Appreciated, is Nonetheless Quite Disturbing"
> 
> The symbolism stuff is quite true. Falcons really are associated with clarity, boldness, and the heavens, and bears really are symbols of powerful warriors. Arthur is also associated with bears in the myths, and I've read suggestions that the name 'Arthur' means 'Uther's bear,' though I can't remember where I read that, so please take it with a grain of salt. As to the lion... they're respected and glorified, but their real-world behavior is not exactly pleasant. Look up what happens when a new alpha lion moves in if you don't believe me. Plus, they are the Lannister animal, and the vast majority of Lannisters completely suck. (So I guess that Arthur's a Mormont?)
> 
> Next chapter, which will hopefully be on Friday rather than another Saturday: Merlin gets his first lessons in zombie-fighting.


	27. Sword and Stave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a wraith in Camelot. Fortunately, Merlin has a plan. Unfortunately, so does Uther.

Chapter XXVII: Sword and Stave

"Right, that's it. Knighthood is stupid."

"Merlin!"

"Well, it is!" the servant protested. "I mean, first you can't knight Lancelot because he wasn't born to some spoiled minor lordling, and now Sir Owain has to fight someone to the death because that someone chucked a glorified metal glove at him?"

Arthur grit his teeth. "There are several things wrong with that statement," he growled. "First of all, knighthood is not stupid. Secondly, that's not how the challenge has to work. The challenger gets to name his conditions, so fights aren't always to the death. Third, it's called a gauntlet, which you would know by now if you ever bothered cleaning my armor."

"I keep your armor very clean, and I still think that it's completely stupid to make someone fight to the death if some random person in a visor chucks his gauntlet at him and says so."

"It's part of the Knight's Code."

Merlin rolled his eyes. "I think that the Knight's Code is in serious need of revision. I mean, that guy broke through the window and interrupted this hugely important ceremony, and he just gets to stand around because he threw his glove at someone? For all we knew, he'd killed five guards on his way into the throne room!"

"He didn't kill anyone, Merlin."

"Well, it's not like anyone knew that at the time. Does the Knight's Code mean that this Black Knight fellow could off Uther in front of everyone, then throw down his gauntlet and be free?"

Arthur glared. "He would be tried and sentenced after the combat, assuming he survived."

"Ah," said Merlin, "but why would he stick around for the combat? Stick a sword in the king, throw a glove at some random hedge knight, and walk out the door while everyone's preparing for the fight."

"Just shut up, will you? We're almost there."

Arthur Pendragon did not often knock. As a prince, he didn't need to. But he knocked today and waited patiently at the door until Sir Owain's squire opened it. The boy's eyes went wide when he saw who had come to call. He ducked into a hasty bow and stammered at them to come in, please, sire.

Owain was rising from his bow as Merlin entered. Naturally, the prince and knight ignored him.

"I'm not going to insult you by asking if you're certain you want to do this," Arthur began. "All I want to say is that fighting to the death is… it's different from the training exercises I've put you through."

"I know," Owain said.

"But you don't know," Arthur protested. Ignoring Owain's frown, he continued, "No one has any idea who this person is or what he wants, other than public combat. More importantly, you don't know his style, his strengths, his weaknesses."

"He doesn't know mine either," Owain pointed out.

Arthur nodded. "That's true."

Some of the confidence seemed to leave Owain's frame then. "You've seen me fight," he began. "Do you think…?"

"I think," Arthur assured him, "that there is no one braver in Camelot. I think you have a good chance of beating him. Remember, it only takes one well-aimed blow to kill a man."

"Aye," Owain said, nodding resolutely. He drew his sword, knelt. "I'll not let you down, my prince."

"I know you won't, Sir Owain."

There was such confidence in Arthur's voice that Merlin believed him, at least at that moment. When they went out to the hastily assembled stadium where the fight would take place, his assurance drained away. They knew nothing about this knight, nothing about his strengths and weaknesses, nothing except that his armor looked quite strong.

It was a quick, brutal fight, with neither man holding back. Merlin watched with bated breath, staring paralyzed at the clash of blades.

And then Owain struck a blow.

The knight's sword sank deep into the gap between the stranger's helm and gorget, slicing into the other man's jugular and several important blood vessels. If the hit had been any stronger, it might have lopped the stranger's head clean off.

It should have been over then. The stranger should have toppled, blood spurting from the enormous cut in his neck. Owain should have stood tall and triumphant, basking in the cheers of the crowd at his defeat of the mystery knight who had sought to fight and kill Arthur Pendragon.

That is not what happened.

The stranger didn't even seem to notice the blow. He kept moving, serpent-swift and serpent-deadly, his blade flashing in the morning sun. Then the blade vanished, obscured by the armor and flesh and blood, so much blood already pouring from that wound.

Owain staggered.

The mystery knight kicked his opponent's chest, pulling his sword free with an awful squelching sound. It was red to the hilt, the red dripping down the pommel onto the stranger's gauntleted hands. Owain—the gushing corpse that had been Owain—thudded to the ground.

Then all was chaos. People were shouting, and Owain's blood was staining the sand, and Arthur was rising to his feet with an expression of murderous fury, and Gaius was shouting his ward's name as he ran into the stadium, moving surprisingly quickly for such an old man. Merlin obeyed him by instinct, launching himself out of the stands past the stranger over to Owain, because he could  _save_  him, him and Gaius, and—

Gaius shook his head, grief clouding his face. "Dead," the physician pronounced.

"But he's getting married next month," Merlin protested stupidly.

"Not anymore."

"Who will take up my challenge?"

Merlin's head whipped around. It was the stranger who had spoken, the killer who had just widowed a girl before her wedding day. He held a gantlet in his hand, and that gauntlet was stained with red. Even as Merlin watched, the mystery knight threw it down.

Arthur's face was red with rage. He took a step forward, mouth opening in a furious retort, when one of his knights knocked him backwards. "I will!" the knight called. "I, Sir Pellinore, will fight you!"

"Tomorrow, then," the stranger proclaimed, "we fight to the death."

Pellinore bared his teeth. "I look forwards to it."

The stranger laughed. He was standing there with a dead man less than ten feet away and blood dripping down his blade, and he laughed. "So do I."

* * *

"You require my aid, young warlock?"

"Yes!" Merlin ran a hand through his hair. He had been pacing since he called for Kilgharrah, but now he forced himself to stop. "I need a huge favor from you."

Kilgharrah tilted his head, waited in silence.

Merlin took a deep breath. "There's a wraith in the castle. Tristain du Bois, apparently. His tomb is empty and he's got the same device. He's challenged Arthur to single combat to the death, but the only way to defeat him—or it, I'm not quite sure—is to stick it with a sword burnished in a dragon's flame." He picked up the blade at his feet, presented it to his scaly friend. "This wraith has already fought two knights. One died on the battlefield, and Gaius doesn't know if the other is going to make it through the night. Tomorrow is Arthur's turn."

Kilgharrah stretched out his neck, ran a critical eye over the blade. "Fine work," he observed.

"My friend Gwen's father is a blacksmith. I asked her for his finest sword, and she got me this. Well, not right away, as she had to go home and negotiate a price and whatnot, but she got it for me."

"Fetch your staff."

"What?" Merlin pulled up short, blinked rapidly.

"Fetch your staff," Kilgharrah repeated.

"Why?"

"So that I may burnish it as well."

Merlin's brow crinkled. "But it's made of wood."

"So it is," Kilgharrah agreed.

"…I don't think that wood and fire mix very well."

"My flame will not burn it, Merlin. You have my word. Now go retrieve it."

Fifteen minutes later, the warlock presented his Sidhe stave to his dragon friend. Kilgharrah leaned in to inspect it. "Powerful already," he murmured. "Earth magic, and water magic as well. Good."

"Like the afanc?" Merlin frowned. "But I used fire and wind to destroy the afanc. Won't your fire breath do the same thing?"

"Much of magic involves intent," Kilgharrah reminded him. "You intended to destroy. I intend to empower, to complete, to create balance. Now, levitate the staff and sword together."

"Okay," Merlin muttered, "but if something goes wrong, you'll owe me a new Sidhe staff."

"Nothing will go wrong," Kilgharrah assured him.

Merlin wrapped the stave and sword in his magic, lifted them into the air. A golden barrier appeared behind the weapons, extending from the ground to the height of the tallest tree. It wasn't quite as bright as usual, as he didn't want to draw attention in the night, but that didn't make it any less powerful. None of Kilgharrah's fire would make it past that shield.

The dragon opened his mouth. Red flames danced behind his teeth, blood red tipped with sunny yellow and campfire orange, held in place by small curving pillars of white. Kilgharrah drew in a deep breath, sucking his flames into his chest, to his heart. His sides swelled.

For a long, long moment, the dragon held his breath. The hairs on the back of Merlin's neck prickled. He could feel it, a great gathering of energy like lightning preparing to strike. He, too, was holding his breath, though unlike the dragon he had no need to do so.

Kilgharrah blew, red and orange and gold and white gushing from his mouth, lighting up the night with a noon-bright blaze. Merlin had to close his eyes, had to blink rapidly to see the brilliant stream of fire. Yet it seemed to him that the fire was not the brightest thing in the clearing. No, that honor belonged to two things shining white in the center of the inferno, two things that radiated magic as the flames radiated light and heat.

And then Kilgharrah closed his mouth, settling himself onto his haunches. "It is done," he proclaimed. "Behold Excalibur, sword of kings and heroes. Behold Beóthaich, the stave of magic's champion."

"Excalibur," Merlin murmured, slowly lowering the sword and staff to the ground. "Beóthaich." The words were like spice on his tongue. "They're… they're amazing, Kilgharrah. Thank you."

"You are very welcome, young warlock."

Merlin took Excalibur from the air first. The sword was hardly recognizable. A streak of gold ran down the blade, gleaming like sunlight between twin moonbeams. Runes glimmered along the metals, strange twisting shapes that Merlin could almost read. The hilt was leather wrapped with gold-threaded twine, with an elegant tapering crossguard and a sunburst on the pommel. It was strong and light and beautiful, palpably magical, all Arthur's. He would do great things with this blade. Merlin knew it in his bones.

But while Excalibur was amazing, it was not the sword that attracted Merlin's eye. It was Beóthaich from which he could not tear his gaze, Beóthaich that he itched to hold. Now that Excalibur was safely returned to its sheath (for he could not neglect the sword, not even to grasp his transformed stave), he reached out with trembling hands to take the staff.

Beóthaich fit into his palms, inside his fingers, as though it had been made for his hands. It was warm to the touch, and smooth despite the gleaming golden runes that covered its length. The crystal atop it, once blue, shone gold like the light of the harvest moon. It seemed to shimmer with its own light, its own tiny star.

"Beautiful," Merlin heard himself whisper in soft awe.

"It is," Kilgharrah rumbled. He had remained silent while his human friend observed the renewed stave, turning it over in his hands and reveling in the pulse of magic that flowed through the wood. "Beautiful, and mighty as well. Merlin." And Merlin looked up, for the dragon rarely called him by name. "No man but you may wield Beóthaich, and no man save Arthur Pendragon may wield Excalibur. You must swear it to me thrice."

"I swear it," the warlock replied, and the crystal atop his staff flashed. "I swear it. I swear it. No one but Arthur and myself will use Excalibur and Beóthaich."

Kilgharrah's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but he dipped his head nonetheless. "So mote it be."

Merlin's fingers tightened around the warm wood of his staff. "So mote it be."

* * *

The king did not often come to his court physician's chambers. On the rare occasion he felt ill or had been injured, he would summon Gaius to his own chambers. It was his right as king, after all, and he disliked the thought of the commoners knowing that he felt anything but perfectly healthy.

So when Gaius looked up from his herb grinding to see the king standing hesitant in his doorway, the physician stood, then immediately dropped himself into a shallow but respectful bow. "Your Majesty," he said. "How may I be of assistance?"

Uther stepped fully into his friend's room, closing the door behind him. "Tell me about the knight."

Gaius was not surprised by Uther's demand. He had expected it. "Merlin and I have been investigating. We went to the tomb of Tristan du Bois."

"And?"

"….Empty, sire. It had been broken through from the inside."

Uther swallowed hard, sank into a chair. His eyelids fluttered shut. The king looked his age or even older, the lines of his face deep, the shadows beneath his eyes big and dark. Even his hair seemed to have more silver and gray in it than it had had yesterday. "It is one of Nimueh's tricks," he said softly. "She was here, Gaius."

"In Camelot?" Merlin would have to know of this.

"In Camelot," the king confirmed. "I thought of striking her down when she appeared before me, but that was foolishness. I knew that I could not. But she  _was_ here."

Gaius closed his eyes. "Ah. I had wondered what her next move would be." He smiled sadly. "She never was the type to give up easily." And while that had benefited Uther Pendragon in his quest to reclaim Camelot, it was not quite such a good thing now. "Did she tell you what she wants?"

Uther's laugh was harsh and bitter. "What does she ever want? Me dead, Arthur as well, and magic returned to the land… though not necessarily in that order."

"I suppose not."

The king sighed, gazed off into the distance. "The thing she has made of Tristan cannot be killed, and my son means to fight… him, it, I know not… to the death tomorrow. His death, not the wraith's."

Gaius was silent, waiting for his friend to continue.

"Yet in life, Tristan blamed me, not Arthur, for Ygraine's death. It was me he wanted to kill, me he wanted dead. Gaius… how likely is it that something of Tristan remains within the wraith?"

"From what I have been able to determine, wraiths retain—or perhaps regain—the desires of their living selves."

Uther smiled, but it was a bleak expression, grim relief rather than joy. "I had hoped so." His shoulders straightened as he held himself a bit higher. "Arthur is my only son and heir. I will not let him die. Yet if he reaches the field tomorrow, he  _will._  He will die before my eyes." Uther's hands clenched into fists. His lips pressed together in a hard thin line. " _I will not let him die._ "

"What would you like me to do, sire?"

This time, the king's smile was a little less bleak. "I need you to stop him from reaching the field. Give him a draught of some kind, something that will keep him unconscious until the fight is over. And then…." He swallowed hard. "I have written letters, one for Arthur, one for Morgana. My son and the daughter of my heart. Make sure that my children get their letters."

"Of course," Gaius vowed, forcing the words past the lump in his throat.

"Good. Thank you."

The two men sat there in silence for awhile, each lost in his thoughts. Uther's eyes were closed, but Gaius's were open, glued to the king's face. He knew full well that it might be the last time he would ever see that face so close.

Finally Uther stood. The sound his chair made as he pushed it back seemed obscenely loud after the quiet. It nearly made Gaius jump, but he restrained himself at the last moment. "I suppose that I must leave now. Even kings need rest…." His gaze hardened. "And though I can't win tomorrow, I won't go down without a fight."

Gaius could hardly breathe. It was at times like this that he remembered the man Uther had almost become, would have become if Ygraine had lived, a chief dragon in truth as well as in name. This was the king buried beneath layers of bitterness and impotent rage, the iron core that had not entirely rusted away.

That king was waiting for his response, gazing back at him with stern agate eyes, so Gaius swallowed and choked out, "Yes, you will. I know you will."

"And I know that you will take care of Arthur. I know that you will guide him and protect him."

"I will," Gaius vowed.

"Good." Uther clasped his friend's shoulder. "Thank you, Gaius, my truest friend. Thank you, and goodbye."

"Goodbye," the physician whispered. It was all he could do to speak, all he could do to suppress the tears. And when the door closed behind his departing friend, he couldn't do it anymore. The physician blinked tears from his eyes, wiped at them with his shaking hands. He shed but a few, for tears did not come easily to him, but the few that left his eyes left trails of red down his cheeks.

When he regained control, the physician washed his face. He scrubbed away the tear tracks and the sorrow, inspecting himself in the mirror for signs of anything but his accustomed professionalism. When he looked impassive enough, he made his way to his medicine shelf.

He had sleeping draughts aplenty thanks to Lady Morgana, and he used one of those potions as the base for Arthur's drug. He strengthened it, adding herbs to increase the duration and to deepen the sleep. Then, when the concoction was complete, he made his way to Arthur's room.

The prince (soon to be a king, but Gaius tried not to think about that) was preparing for bed when Gaius arrive though Merlin was nowhere in sight. "I don't suppose you know where my idiot manservant ran off to?"

"I'm afraid not, sire."

Arthur nodded, unsurprised. "How fares Sir Pellinore?"

"As well as can be expected," Gaius sighed. "If he makes it through the night, he will survive. For his sake, I'd like to make this quick."

"What do you need?"

"A sleeping draught," Gaius told him, pulling it from out of his robes. "You'll need all your strength for tomorrow."

Arthur smiled wanly. "You're right, of course." He accepted the offering and gulped it down in one swallow.

And then he collapsed.

Gaius grinned as he rearranged the prince's prone form into a more comfortable position. It wouldn't do for him to wake up with cramps. He would suffer enough tomorrow, and there was no need to exacerbate it.

That thought made Gaius's grin fade.

The physician needed a sleeping draught himself that night, he tossed and turned so much. Still, he felt he'd hardly slept a wink when morning arrived.

"Tired, Gaius?"

"Very. Did you manage to sleep last night, Merlin?"

The boy grinned. "Yeah. I got to bed a bit late since I had to talk to Kilgharrah, but I slept pretty well after that."

"I'm surprised. Aren't you worried?"

"Not anymore," the warlock announced. "Kilgharrah burnished a sword for Arthur. All he has to do is land one cut and the wraith will die."

"You did?"

"Kilgharrah did," Merlin corrected him. "He burnished my Sidhe staff, too, and all he asked in return was my oath that no one but Arthur and me would use our weapons."

Gaius's smile plummeted. "Ah." He thought of Uther. "That might be a problem."

"Why would it be a problem?"

The physician explained.

When his mentor was finished, Merlin remained quiet for a long moment. Finally, he said, "You're right. That kind of is a problem."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Merlin is Justifiably Skeptical about the Compatibility of Wood and Fire"
> 
> *gawks at own writing* Did I just... create a semi-decent Uther? Wow. I think I just did. Why can't he be like that all the time, instead of the crazy genocidal tyrant we all love to hate? And yet, that is what the creators created. I guess they had to get the anti-magic laws from somewhere... And also, Arthur and Morgana bring out the best in their dad. Usually. Just don't expect this Uther to last.


	28. A Duel to the Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get awkward when Merlin's plan goes awry.

Chapter XXVIII: A Duel to the Death

As Merlin stood in the tent, nervously fidgeting within his illusory armor, he reflected that this idea had seemed a lot better when he wasn't in imminent danger of dying. In fact, it seemed that the closer his imminent death, the worse of an idea it seemed. Funny how that worked.

So the warlock tried to convince himself that he could do this. Hadn't he been training with Arthur and Leon all winter? Couldn't he slow time? Didn't he have a magic sword? All that he really had to do was not die before he landed a blow (or after, he supposed, but he was really just taking this one step at a time), and he was good at not dying. He'd done it for almost twenty years!

Merlin groaned. This encouraging himself thing really wasn't working out too well.

The warlock shifted his weight from foot to foot. He stared at the floor, then started when he noticed that the bangs hanging over his eyes were blond. He grimaced. Of course his bangs were blond now. What else could he expect when he had disguised himself as Arthur?

When Gaius had told him that Arthur was drugged, Merlin's initial impulse had been to find a spell to counter his friend's sleep. Gaius had put a stop to it, though, pointing out that such spells were hard to find and often came with side effects. It wouldn't do to wake Arthur only to have him collapse with exhaustion in the middle of the fight. So Merlin had thought for a couple minutes before using an illusion spell to make himself look like Arthur.

It was weird, impersonating someone he knew. He had gotten used to his Emrys disguise over the winter, but he had created 'Emrys' from scratch. His alibi had his own mannerisms and backstory, not to mention a few personality differences (though, Merlin supposed, it was really just revealing parts of himself that he had to keep hidden as Merlin the manservant) that would hopefully throw anyone who knew him as Merlin off the scent. Pretending to be Arthur was a lot more difficult. He was just glad that 'Arthur' had managed to avoid conversations so far, and now he was safely in his tent. All he had to do was wait here until it was time to fight, and nobody could possibly notice that he wasn't actually Arthur.

Then Uther came in.

Merlin went rigid. Despite the fact that 'Arthur' was clad in armor from head to toe with only his visor open, he felt naked under the king's penetrating gaze. He thought of Edwin Muirden tied to the stake. His heart gave a nervous little stutter before he could banish the sight and smell (oh, gods, the  _smell_ ) from his mind, but it was too late. His throat was completely dry, and he had to clench his fists to keep his hands from trembling.

"Arthur," the king said softly.

_That's right,_  Merlin told himself.  _He thinks you're Arthur. He has no reason to not think that you're Arthur. Even though you're nervous, that's acceptable Arthur behavior because despite his arrogance, he knows he might die today. Just calm down and remember to disguise your voice when you have to say anything to him. Oh. Oh, I should probably say something to him._

The warlock swallowed once, forced a sickly smile. "I'm sorry?" he said. "I didn't hear you."

"I said," Uther repeated, slowly and clearly, "that I will take your place."

Now that Merlin was marginally calmer, he noticed that the king was garbed for battle: old iron armor, scarred but strong, with a thick wooden shield on his arm and a long, plain-handled sword at his hip.

"But you can't," Merlin blurted.

"I am your father and your king. You  _will_ obey me in this!"

This was not good at all. Merlin hadn't expected Uther to confront 'Arthur' in the tents, hadn't expected him to interfere anymore now that his first scheme had been thwarted. He really should have. The real Arthur did not inherit his stubbornness from Ygraine, after all.

"But," Merlin babbled, his thoughts scrambling as he searched for something that Arthur would say, "but, the Code—"

"Hang the Code!" Uther bellowed. "You are my heir. You are my  _son,_  and I love you more than anything else in the world."

…aaaand this was beginning to get awkward.

Then Uther  _hugged_  him, and Merlin nearly dropped his disguise in shock.

Fortunately, Arthur was emotionally stunted enough that Merlin's open-mouthed gawking and incoherent spluttering was completely in character. The warlock stood there rigid in the king's arms, frozen and horrified and embarrassed all at once, praying that Uther would let him go but too stunned to realize that he could probably escape on his own. The only part of his mind still capable of rational thought reflected that he was really not paid enough for this.

Finally, thankfully, the trumpets sounded. Merlin could have wept with relief. "That's my cue!" he babbled, disentangling himself from Uther's embrace. If his voice was higher in pitch than Arthur's was supposed to be, he didn't notice as he carried on. "That's my cue, all right. So now I have to go and… um… do knightly princely stuff. Bye!"

And with that, he sprinted from the tent.

The fight wouldn't begin for a few more minutes—it would seem the trumpets were a false alarm—but there was no way Merlin was going back into that tent. What if Uther hugged him again? He didn't think he could handle that. Dragons were fine and dandy, prophecies were annoyingly cryptic but not too much of a burden, but hugs from Uther?  _Hugs_  from  _Uther_? Just… no.

So Merlin stayed in the public eye, praying to every god he could name that Uther wouldn't display his affection so publically. One of those gods was in a good mood that day, so there were no more hugs. However, Uther still came out all armed and armored to argue with his 'son' about which of them should fight. But Merlin could be stubborn too, and short of physically dragging 'Arthur' off the field, there was nothing that Uther could do. With a face so morose that Merlin actually felt sorry for him, Uther retreated to his place in the stands… but not before telling 'Arthur' how proud he was.

Needless to say, Merlin was extremely relieved when the king left.

Uther's concern had been extremely disturbing, but it had one good side effect: Merlin had been so occupied with not panicking over the king's behavior that he'd forgotten to fear his real opponent. Now, though, he had nothing to distract him from the professionally trained, heavily armored, potentially indestructible wraith that was going to try to kill him.

Swallowing hard, the warlock studied his opponent, trying to see him as Sir Leon would. That heavy armor would make him slow, and it was old and dented and a bit rusty too. Tristan's sword was long and wicked sharp, but there were nicks in the blade and he very much doubted that it had been burnished in a dragon's breath.

"It only takes one well-aimed blow to kill a man," Arthur had said.

That was all he needed. According to Kilgharrah, the sword's magic would take care of the rest. All he had to do was land one blow on the knight's flesh, and one more threat would be gone from Camelot.

Merlin's hands tightened on Excalibur's hilt. Beneath the illusion of gauntlets, his knuckles were white with strain. Yet, somehow, he felt a little bit better.

Tristan didn't know how Merlin fought. Perhaps he knew Arthur's style, which would confuse him when Merlin did things completely differently. And Merlin had seen how Tristan fought: ruthlessly, powerfully, and completely without fear.

Uther was talking now, giving a little speech about honor and knights and that sort of thing. Merlin didn't pay attention until he heard, "…begin!"

Tristan du Bois wasted no time. With a horrible  _snick_ , he drew his blade from the scabbard. Merlin did the same and tried to ignore how his hands were shaking.

Arthur would have done a couple flourishes, loosening up his wrists while giving the crowd a show. Merlin, though, kept Excalibur still. He bent his knees, shifted into the combat-ready position that Leon and Arthur had drilled into him over the past few months.

The knight charged.

Merlin whirled aside, letting his enemy's momentum past. The warlock completed his circle, lunged forward, but Tristan had already spun himself about. His nameless blade met Excalibur with a loud clang. Merlin bent his knees, letting them absorb some of the force of the blow. He changed the bend into a bounce, throwing his weight into the blow, hoping that his pushing would knock away the other fighter's sword.

Tristan knew exactly what his adversary was up to. He let his arms go slack. Merlin fell forward, face impacting the knight's breastplate.

The wraith raised his sword.

Somehow, Merlin managed to stumble aside. He stepped on the knight's foot as he did so, and Tristan jerked it off the ground. That gave Merlin an idea. As soon as he regained his balance, he slashed at Tristan's face. The knight automatically raised his sword to deflect the blow, years of training overpowering the knowledge that he couldn't be killed. As steel met steel, Merlin hooked his opponent's ankle with his foot, then jerked his leg back.

Tristan du Bois stumbled.

Excalibur sliced through Tristan's armor like a dinner knife would cut through butter. Merlin had aimed for a weak spot, the place where neck and shoulder meet, and either the sword's magic let it cut through steel or the warlock was a lot stronger than he thought, because in mere moments the blade was cutting into flesh.

The wraith burst into flames. They poured through his visor, blazed at the break, turned the rest of the armor cherry-red from the heat. Tristan screamed, a high thin terrible sound. Smoke wafted up from beneath his helm.

Then it was over. Tristan collapsed, his body crumbling to ash within his red armor, his shrieking silenced.

Merlin stared at the steaming corpse in stunned silence. Kilgharrah hadn't warned him that the sword's magic would be so… flashy. Swallowing hard in sudden fear, he pulled Excalibur from the body. It was completely clean, no blood or ash marring the blade, and the steel was cool to Merlin's touch.

Hopefully, that fire show wasn't visible from the stands. He really didn't want to explain why one nick from a totally-not-magical-at-all sword wielded by a totally-not-magical-and-not-an-imposter prince had made his opponent burst into flames.

The audience started cheering then. Like Merlin, they had initially been frozen in shock and disbelief, but now they were cheering, shouting, exulting. "ARTHUR! ARTHUR!" they cried, and "PENDRAGON!" and "PRINCE!" A thousand hands or more were clapping, some fast and some slow, all thrilled.

A slow smile tugged at the corner of Merlin's mouth. He'd never really understood Arthur's love of tourneys, but now he did. It was exhilarating, hearing the crowds cheering for something you'd done, even if they had gotten the name wrong. Grinning widely, he lifted his sword as though to salute. He turned slowly, giving each section time to see his borrowed face, taking time to see everybody cheering him on. But even as he turned, some of the people were falling silent, their joy giving way to confusion.

A hand grabbed Merlin's shoulder, whirled him around.

Prince Arthur Pendragon glowered at him through narrowed eyes. "Who the hell are you?"

* * *

Arthur came to awareness slowly, his mind drifting through that drowsy half-state between slumber and awareness. He could vaguely feel that he was warm and comfortable in his featherbed, that his limbs were leaden and motionless. It was a good leadenness, though, and he didn't want to leave it.

Yet despite his desire to continue drifting, Arthur found himself becoming more and more alert. He could feel the blankets above him and the sheets and pillow below, and his limbs didn't feel quite so heavy. And he was thirsty. Hungry, too, and there was a vague whispering doubt in the corner of his mind.

Finally, his body's demands were too much. Blinking blearily despite the dimness of the room (the curtains were closed and no candles were lit, but there was light streaming through the fabric illuminating motes of dust), Arthur forced himself out of his nice warm bed and stumbled over to the bedside table, which had a jug on it. The water within was lukewarm, but drinking it helped clear his head.

There was something important, Arthur knew, something he had forgotten. His room seemed peaceful enough, but if he strained his ears, he could make out a great clamor from somewhere on the grounds. Frowning, the prince forced his sleepy mind to remember what had happened. Let's see: dinner with Father and Morgana, deciding to turn in early, Gaius with his sleeping draught….

The  _knight._

Suddenly Arthur wasn't sleepy anymore.

He had to fight to the death today. He'd picked up the gauntlet, but now he'd overslept and—what time was it? It couldn't possibly be noon. Merlin would have—

Actually, he would not put it past his idiot manservant to deliberately  _not_  wake him up. "For your protection," the dolt would say, or some other such tripe. Maybe "You looked really sleepy" or "You need all your strength to fight today."

Arthur made a mental note to throw Merlin into the stocks before running towards the window.

His view of the tourney ring was not spectacular, but even he could see that it was packed to its fullest capacity. That was the source of the noise he'd briefly noticed earlier: the shouting, cheering crowd. They were acting like someone was in the ring, like someone was putting on a show and maybe  _dying_  because Arthur had overslept and another had taken his place.

Horrified, praying desperately that it wasn't true, Arthur looked to the sun. It was high in the sky, casting miniscule shadows towards the east. Slightly after noon, then. Maybe it wasn't too late.

Cursing, Arthur grabbed his sword-belt and sprinted out of his room. He didn't take time to change from yesterday's rumpled garments. He didn't  _have_  time to change. He might not even have enough time to put on his armor.

Once he exited the castle, Arthur forced himself to slow to a walk. He could hardly fight the mystery knight if he showed up red-faced and out of breath. If he survived the next few minutes, he was going to  _kill_ Gaius for giving him such a potent sleeping draught.

Wait.

Gaius had been court physician since before Arthur's birth. Moreover, he had been providing Morgana with sleeping draughts for the better part of a decade. He knew exactly what he was doing, which meant that he'd overdosed Arthur on purpose. Which meant that the king had commanded him. Which might mean that….

"No," Arthur heard himself whisper. No, he wouldn't. It was some random knight in the ring, he told himself, and winced away from the hope that someone else's father might die today. It was a shameful thought indeed, but there was a part of him that wanted it to be anyone but Uther. Oh, his royal father was skilled at arms, but he was getting on in years and didn't practice like the knights did. He was strong, yes, but was he strong enough? Arthur feared that the answer was no.

If his father was in the ring with that thing….

But it wasn't his father in the ring.

Arthur slowed to a stop, gawking in stunned disbelief at the person who stood over the stranger knight's armor, turning slowly to take in the crowd. Who the  _hell…?_

The prince knew full well that he had no siblings, and he certainly didn't have an identical twin brother who was apparently good enough with the sword to take out the mystery knight. He didn't have any cousins either, and it certainly wasn't him out there wearing Arthur's armor Arthur's face with Arthur's enemy dead at his feet.

Well, at least it wasn't his father out there.

Confused and maybe a little bit panicky, Arthur stomped out into the ring. The peasants who noticed his approach fell silent, their cheers petering off into a confusion much like Arthur's own. The quiet spread as more and more people noticed him, shouts turning to whispers as people asked their neighbors what was going on. The false Arthur didn't notice, though, too occupied with his role.

He only noticed when the real Arthur grabbed him, yanked him around, and snapped, "Who the hell are you?"

If the man hadn't been wearing Arthur's face, the prince might have been amused by his expression of guilt. As it was, seeing his own blue eyes go wide and his own jaw sag was downright disturbing.

"Um," not-Arthur said, "I'm the prince of Camelot?"

"No you're not!" Arthur yelled (and despite what Morgana would say later, it  _was_  a yell, not a shriek. Shrieks were for girls and Merlin).

"SORCERER!" bellowed a familiar voice. Arthur and not-Arthur simultaneously turned to the royal box, where Uther had risen to his feet. The king's face was red with rage.

Not-Arthur groaned. "And here I was hoping to escape unnoticed," he muttered. "Should have known better." Whatever magic had changed his appearance dissolved, revealing him to be an ordinary-looking young man a couple years younger than Arthur. After quickly sheathing his sword, the spellbinder snorted. "Warlock, actually," he called back.

"GUARDS!" Uther roared. "ARREST HIM!"

The sorcerer—warlock—rolled his eyes. They were bright yellow, Arthur noticed, even though he didn't seem to be doing any magic at the moment. Was that because he was a warlock, or was he casting a spell that Arthur couldn't see?

Uther wasn't the only one shouting, though his voice somehow carried above the rest. A few people in the crowd were screaming, others were shouting whatever came into their heads, and quite a few of them were jostling and trying to escape. It was pandemonium.

By now, a few guards had managed to elbow their way into the arena. Their swords remained sheathed, but that would change in just a few steps. Some were already gripping their sword-hilts in their mailed hands.

The guards reminded Arthur that he, too, had a sword. Quick as a wink, he unsheathed it, dropped himself into a combat-ready position.

His reinforcements were just a few feet away from the spellbinder when they collided with a shimmering golden shield. The force of impact revealed the barrier's shape, a simple dome of golden light less than two feet above Arthur's head.

"Who are you?" the prince demanded again.

This time, the warlock actually smiled. "My name is Emrys," he said, "and I'm your guiding light."

And then he was gone, vanishing without an incantation or the whirlwind that usually accompanied magical transportation. He was simply there one moment and gone the next, leaving no trace of himself behind…

…except for a  _very_ familiar globe of light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Uther Hugs a Warlock (Much to Said Warlock's Horror) Instead of Killing Him."
> 
> If you look back to last chapter, you'll note that Merlin is technically not breaking his oath. I made sure to word it very specifically. According to the letter of the oath, "No one but Arthur and myself will use Excalibur and Beóthaich." Loopholes! And hey, better Merlin than Uther.
> 
> -Antares


	29. Rumors and Rescues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The people of Camelot are shameless gossips. Uther is angrier than usual.

Chapter XXIX: Rumors and Rescues

The tale spread like wildfire: a sorcerer (warlock, actually, but most people didn't know the difference) had publically endangered himself to save Prince Arthur Pendragon, son of the man who had begun the Purge. There had already been whispered stories throughout the land, rumors that sorcerers were becoming more active and visible, but a lot of those yarns had come from a friend of a friend. Many had thought them no more than rumors, for only a few people had witnessed druids performing magic in plain sight.

But Emrys's deeds had proven that those rumors were not merely rumors. Too many people had seen him in the ring, had seen him use magic to impersonate Arthur and to escape the guards. There was no way that anyone could keep that little escapade a secret.

Uther tried, of course, but his threats only made his subjects clam up whenever they saw a red cloak. They didn't stop anyone from telling their relatives on the farm, merchants, or travelers about the prince's spellbinder.

Soon, all of Camelot knew the gist of the tale. Details varied widely, of course. Some said that Uther kept a sorcerer in reserve, others that Arthur had in desperation turned to magic to save his life. A few claimed that the real Arthur had fought the mystery knight and that the 'Arthur' in Camelot was the real sorcerer. One particularly insistent individual even asserted that the sorcerer was a sorceress, and she had saved Arthur's life because she had fallen in love with the handsome prince.

That last one was Morgana's absolute favorite.

The tales varied from ridiculous to nervous to confused to skeptical, but not one person so much as suggested that this was not the first time Arthur Pendragon owed his life to magic.

_My name is Emrys, and I'm your guiding light._

Arthur hadn't told anyone what the warlock had said. He hadn't told anyone the significance of the globe of light that had vanished mere moments after its conjuror. How could he? That would mean revisiting the Cave of Balor and whatever had happened with Sophia Tir-Mor and he would have to tell his father that he had lied to his face. He couldn't do that.

After all, Arthur told himself when guilt left him unable to sleep, it wasn't as though Emrys had hurt him. Quite the opposite. When he'd confronted Gaius and Father about their decision to drug him, they had explained what the stranger knight was. Had Arthur fought his uncle's wraith, he would have died, for there could be only one victor when a mortal and an immortal fought to the death. At the very least he would have been badly wounded and bedridden like Sir Pellinor was. That made this the third time Emrys had saved his life.

Arthur just wished he knew why.

* * *

"Still no luck?" Uther growled.

"No, sire," sighed the plainly exhausted Leon. "As I said, I believe that the sorcerer has taken refuge among the druids. If he was still in the city, we would have found him."

Merlin kept his face carefully blank. The warlock didn't look at Gaius, knowing that the physician was just as determinedly not looking at him. Silent and somber, he poured a bit more wine into Arthur's goblet. If his hands were a bit less steady than usual, his grip tighter, then nobody noticed.

"Then find the druids," the king commanded. "Find them, and kill them all. Each team of hunters will contain at least one man who saw the sorcerer's face. When the teams have dealt with the druids, the witness will inspect every body. If he finds the one who so flagrantly flaunted my laws, he will remove the sorcerer's head and bring it back to Camelot."

Leon's jaw was tight, but he spoke no word of protest. He did, however, glance towards his frowning prince.

"Father," Arthur said slowly, "we have no proof that the druids are sheltering this man."

"They are the most likely candidates," Uther reminded him. "And you know as well as I that the druids have become more active these past few months. Many of the reports we've received contain mention of druidic symbols."

"So they do," Arthur admitted, "but the druids in those reports have done naught but help people."

The temperature in the room seemed to plummet. Merlin half-expected to see his breath pluming in the air.

When Uther spoke, his voice was as quiet and hard as ice. "The druids in the reports have disobeyed my law, practicing the vile art of magic before the eyes of the people in repeated deliberate attempts to undermine my reign. They may present a friendly façade, but even the ones without magic would gladly see it returned to my kingdom. They seek to undo my entire life's work, and you say they have done naught but help people?"

Arthur flushed. "I meant that their actions have harmed no one."

"Yet," his father replied.

"The druids have always been a peaceful people," Arthur pressed.

Uther fixed him with a long, cold, hard stare. His son flushed but met his sire's eyes, at least at first. Soon the red faded from Arthur's cheeks and he dipped his head.

Merlin fought back a pang of disappointment. It was still progress, he reminded himself. A year ago, Arthur wouldn't have said anything, especially not with other council members looking on.

"Gaius."

"Yes, sire?" the physician said. He sounded nervous.

"What exactly have you been teaching my son?"

Merlin's heart stuttered. Of course Uther would believe that Arthur's new opinions came from Gaius. Which meant that Uther thought….

He had burnt men alive for less.

Arthur went white. He stared at his father in horrified disbelief.

Gaius's eyes widened ever so slightly, but his voice did not tremble. "We have mostly been learning about magical creatures, sire. Manticores, bastet, afanc, and so on."

"We're currently studying wyverns," Leon confirmed. Merlin shot him a grateful smile.

"It's the reports themselves that have persuaded me, not anything that Gaius said." Arthur was stiff in his chair, his jaw tight with strain.

"I cannot think of anything in our classes—"

"That is enough, Sir Leon," Uther interrupted. The knight fell silent, worry writ plain across his face. "If you recall, Arthur, I gave you permission to learn about magic because I thought you mature enough to not be seduced by it. Your behavior has proved otherwise. Your lessons are disbanded, effective immediately."

"Yes, Father," Arthur ground out. His entire body was tense, rigid, and he seemed to have trouble unclenching his teeth. "I understand."

Merlin understood, too. He understood that Arthur was being punished, that he was being threatened, that Gaius was being threatened. He also understood that Arthur would be in a vile mood for the rest of the day and would undoubtedly take it out on his manservant.

Sure enough, Merlin was completely exhausted by the time Arthur was through with him. He barely had enough energy to ask Gaius if Uther had said anything else.

"No," the physician replied. He was quieter than usual, his gaze distant. "He said nothing about my supposed responsibility for Arthur's change of heart."

"Good," Merlin said, smiling. That was something, at least. "Let me know if that changes, will you?" He turned, fully intending to go to bed.

"Wait."

"What?" Please don't have something for me to do. Please don't make me clean the leech tank….

"After you and Arthur left, he gave orders to arrest and detain certain individuals he suspects of sympathizing with spellbinders."

Merlin groaned. His bed was so close, but he really ought to hear Gaius out first. "When?"

"Tomorrow, I'm afraid," Gaius answered. He had the grace to look apologetic about it, though.

Silently cursing the king and his paranoia, Merlin trudged into his bedroom and withdrew his druidic clothing from beneath his loose floorboard. After donning the deep green tunic, gray trousers, and navy cloak, he whispered the spells of illusion that would make him look like Emrys.

Gaius had a list of names, eight unfortunate individuals who had said the wrong thing at the wrong time or flinched away from burnings or had a magical relative or something. Merlin didn't really pay attention to their 'crimes.' All he needed were their names and addresses.

The first of the accused sympathizers was an old widow woman with wiry gray hair and eyes of the same shade. Those gray eyes went wide when she saw who had arrived at her door. "Get inside," she breathed, half-dragging him in. "You're him, aren't you?" she whispered. "You're the one who saved Prince Arthur."

"Yes," Merlin confirmed. "My name is Emrys."

"What brings you to my home, Master Emrys?"

"Danger," was Merlin's flat response. "Uther is planning a raid. He intends to arrest eight people, yourself among them."

The woman's eyes went wide with fear, but her voice only trembled a little as she asked, "When?"

"Tomorrow, I'm afraid," Merlin admitted.

The woman's head jerked in a nod. "I have kin in a village nearby," she said. "Do you know if Uther knows about them?"

"I have no idea," Merlin confessed. "I know where you can find a druid, though. His name is Blaise."

"Are you a druid?" the woman asked, her gaze settling on the triskel-shaped clasp of Merlin's cloak. It gleamed dully in the dim light.

"No, I'm not. I just know some, that's all."

"It's the same with me," the woman confessed. She swallowed hard. "Well, I suppose I oughtn't endanger my kin if I can find a place with the druids. I've heard that they'll take in anyone."

"That they will. You'll be safe there."

"Give me a few minutes to pack and I'll go meet this druid of yours," she promised.

"Of course. I have to contact the others anyways."

Merlin had five more conversations like that one. There was one couple, though, that tried to attack him when it became clear that he was a spellbinder. Apparently they weren't actually sympathizers. Merlin tried to explain to them that they were in danger still, that Uther still thought they were his enemies and they could be burnt at the stake, but they still refused to move.

That was when a trio of guards arrived. Apparently, one of the couple's children had run to summon them shortly after the warlock's arrival. Merlin cast a powerful sleep spell on them and left, praying that they would be safe from Uther's wrath. After all, they'd tried to capture him. The guards could vouch for them. Hopefully Uther would realize that this family wanted nothing to do with magic.

It was past midnight by now. The moon was high and the stars bright, but Camelot itself was almost silent save for the soft thud of Merlin's footsteps. He wasn't tired anymore, though he knew he'd suffer in the morning.

The warlock backtracked, first revisiting the old woman. She had crammed her possessions into a couple of bulging bags and was hovering anxiously by the door. Despite the comfortable warmth of a late spring night, she wore layer upon layer of clothing, presumably because it didn't all fit in her bags. She must be sweltering, but Merlin didn't think that the sweat gleaming on her brow came from heat alone.

By the time Merlin had gathered everyone—men and women and a half-dozen children accompanying their parents, one of them a babe in arms—the night was half-gone. They wouldn't reach Blaise's little hut until dawn. Merlin would be lucky to get three hours of sleep. Still, the sympathizers were watching him, so he forced himself to not sigh. Instead, he murmured, "Follow me."

They followed without comment until it became clear that he was leading them into the castle. "What do you think you're playing at?" one of the men hissed. His glower was intimidating, but it would have been more so if his toddling son wasn't sleeping on his back.

The idea had come to Merlin somewhere between his fifth and sixth houses. "The dragon's cave leads out of the city," he explained.

"Dragon?" a girl-child squeaked, clutching her doll.

"He isn't there," Merlin assured her. "I freed him months ago, and in return he promised not to hurt anybody. He's my friend."

"I thought that the dragons were all dead," the widow breathed.

"Not all of them. This one was kept alive as bait for Balinor Caledonensis, the last dragonlord."

"But he's not going to be there, right?" the nervous girl demanded.

Merlin hesitated. An idea had just occurred to him. Did he really need to escort these people all the way to Blaise's cottage? He still had Kilgharrah's scale. His reptilian friend could easily lead these poor refugees the rest of the way. Except it wasn't just the little girl who was afraid. Two of the sympathizers, the widow woman and a tavern serving maid, were in awe, their eyes wide with wonder at the thought of a surviving dragon. The rest of the little crowd was shifting from foot to foot, their eyes too bright in the half-moon's light.

"No, he won't," the warlock finally sighed, mentally subtracting another half hour from his estimated sleep time. He really needed to learn how to pause time while asleep. There just weren't enough hours in the day. "It's just a druid that you'll be meeting, that's all." Hopefully he sounded less morose than he felt.

They snuck through the palace without incident, much to almost everyone's bemusement. Apparently, the guards' reputation for incompetence had not diffused among the general public, which explained why so few people had attempted to break in. Merlin only had to cast one sleep spell, and the spell's target was so drowsy that he would have succumbed anyways within a few minutes.

Merlin only conjured his globe of light once they entered Kilgharrah's old cave. They needed it, for it was rather difficult to climb through the rocks even with illumination. Without, it would have been nearly impossible.

Through the cave they went, then through the woods until Merlin could finally make out the welcoming silhouette of Blaise's cottage.

It took the druid a few minutes to answer Merlin's knock. When he saw the crowd behind his pupil, Blaise raised his brow. "What exactly is this?"

"There's to be a raid tomorrow," Merlin explained. "These people were on Uther's arrest list. Can you shelter them, get them to your people?" He remembered something else then. "And I have to get a message to your people in the next few days. Uther's planning raids on druid camps, but he and his men haven't decided where or when yet."

"Will you know by our next lesson?"

Merlin considered. "I think so, yes. I'll try to send you a mental message tomorrow. For now, though…." He gestured at his followers.

"Come inside," Blaise told them softly. "Go home, Emrys. Sleep. I'll handle everything from here."

Merlin had wanted to hear that all evening. Smiling his thanks, he called upon his magic. Time froze around him.

A part of Merlin felt somewhat guilty about pausing time. It was one thing to use this magic to make his escape, as he'd done after dispatching the wraith. It was quite another to use it so that he could actually get some sleep.

In his defense, though, he was really, really tired.

Merlin held onto time for about a quarter of an hour before he had to release it. It wasn't as much as he'd hoped for, but extra sleep was extra sleep, and he needed all the extra sleep he could get.

Still, he could barely keep his eyes open the next day. "My insomnia's acting up," he told the scowling Arthur. "'m sorry. I just—" But here a huge yawn escaped his throat.

Arthur glared. He was in a foul mood that day, not at all happy about his father's planned raids, which he had apparently been ordered to lead. "Just stay awake until my room's clean."

"Okay," Merlin replied, deciding to interpret that as permission to take a nap once his chores were complete. "Right. I'll do that."

"You can quit nodding now, Merlin."

"Right." Merlin nodded, realized what he was doing, and grinned sheepishly. "I'll do that."

Arthur sighed. "This will probably take half the day," he complained, "and then we'll have to do trials. Those will probably last until the end of the week."

There was something strange about that, though Merlin had to think a few moments before his foggy brain could dredge it up. "Don't trials usually take less time?"

"Yes, but I'm trying to investigate each case more thoroughly than normal. Father doesn't want any of that sorcerer's allies to slip through the cracks, so I'll need more evidence to acquit them." His jaw tightened. "I'll not see some innocent burn just because a crazy spellbinder's taken a liking to me."

Merlin grinned at him. Arthur rolled his eyes as he stomped out of the room.

It took only a few minutes for Merlin to complete his chores. Magic was useful that way. With nothing else to do, he curled up on Arthur's newly made bed and went to sleep.

Arthur woke him hours later with a rough shake. "You're not Gaius," Merlin muttered, his thoughts still hazy.

"And that's not your bed."

"Oh." Merlin looked around himself. "I guess it's not." He gave his head a little shake as he stood. "How did the raids go?"

"They all vanished," Arthur replied. Merlin couldn't read his expression. Was it anger, confusion, happiness? "The only people we could find had been enchanted. Apparently that spellbinder showed up at their door last night to warn them about the raid. They summoned some guards, but the spellbinder bewitched them too and escaped. Leon's interrogating them right now."

"What? But if they were enchanted—"

"They won't be prosecuted, Merlin. Don't worry about that. Father just wants more information."

"Good." Now, what would he say if he really didn't know anything about this? "So how did the spellbinder know?"

"Gaius thinks it's scrying."

"Oh. That makes sense."

"Speaking of Gaius, he was looking for you." A wicked grin split Arthur's face. "When's the last time you cleaned the leech tank?"

Merlin's eyes bugged out. "I'm not here," he declared.

"No, you're not." Arthur grabbed his manservant's arm. "You're in the physician's quarters with Gaius, doing whatever disgusting task needs doing." And with that, he dragged the protesting Merlin down the halls.

It was, the warlock decided, completely unfair. Gaius knew that he'd been up late last night, knew that he'd been busy saving lives. He shouldn't have to do  _any_  of the older man's chores today.

Gaius was speaking with another man when Merlin and Arthur arrived. A patient, the warlock supposed.

Then the 'patient,' most likely noticing the prince's noisy entrance, looked up. He smiled. "Hello, Merlin."

The warlock gawked. "Will? What are you doing here?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate Chapter Title: "Wherein the Only Thing Uther Can Be Happy About is That at Least No One Knows About Him Accidentally Hugging That Blasted Sorcerer."
> 
> Next up: The Ealdor arc! Or the beginning thereof, at least.
> 
> (If anybody cares, I just put the first chapter of Book III up on FFN. So exciting! :) )
> 
> -Antares


	30. Ealdor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home sweet home would be sweeter without all these bandits.

Chapter XXX: Ealdor

It seemed that Gaius did not need Merlin to clean the leech tank. It seemed that Gaius didn't need Merlin at all, that the physician had been acting as a messenger more than anything else.

"Will?" Arthur repeated, staring at the ordinary-looking young man at Gaius's side. He was Merlin's age or perhaps a bit older, with brown hair and a plain face. His clothing marked him as a peasant, probably a farmer.

"Will, this is my employer Arthur," Merlin said distractedly. "Arthur, this is Will, my best friend from Ealdor."

"Nice to meet you," Will said, still not looking at the prince. "Merlin, we need you back home."

The servant's eyes went wide. "Did something happen to Mother?"

"No, no, Hunith's fine. Your father too." Will's face darkened. "At least, they're fine for now."

"What happened?" Merlin demanded yet again.

"Bandits. You ever heard of a man called Kanen?"

"No."

"He raided the village," Will explained. "He took everything we had left after winter and all our sheep and everything in the inn. He said he'll come back in a fortnight, and if we don't want him to destroy our town, we'll pay him this ridiculously expensive ransom."

"How much?" Merlin asked. "I've got some coin stashed away."

"Ten thousand gold."

The sum Will named made Merlin's jaw drop. His mouth worked silently for several moments. Finally, the manservant recovered enough to choke out, "That's insane."

"It is." Will's fists opened and closed. "Your father's been teaching a lot of the men how to fight, and Sean's making weapons as fast as he can, but we're going to need all the help we can get."

Arthur butted in. "Ealdor is in Essetir, correct?"

Merlin and Will started. Apparently they'd forgotten he was there. "Well, yes," Merlin said, apparently not understanding.

Arthur rolled his eyes. Honestly, Merlin could be  _so_  dim at times. "It is King Cenred's duty to defend his subjects. Go to him for aid, and he will be honor-bound to give it. The gods know he'd be more help than Merlin."

The two peasants gawked at Arthur, identical expressions of incredulity marring their faces. Apparently this blatantly obvious solution hadn't occurred to them.

Then Will started laughing. Merlin choked a bit, clearly biting his lip to keep from joining in. "You think  _Cenred_  will help?"

"He is Ealdor's king."

Will's laughter had died down. He gave a dismissive snort. "Oh, Cenred's happy enough to lord it over us when it's time for taxes, but the rest of the year, we might as well not exist."

"There was that one year," Merlin reminded him.

Will's brow arched. "Really. When exactly was this?"

"It was the year with all the grasshoppers. Remember? He sent out his tax collector a whole month early so he could assess our wealth before it was destroyed."

"Oh, right." Will tilted his head. "And I suppose there was that one time when we were little and he took half the men away for some pointless war." His jaw tightened.

Merlin flinched. "I suppose so," he agreed, uncharacteristically subdued.

Gaius spoke for the first time. "Merlin is only one man, Will. What exactly did you expect him to do?"

Will looked from Merlin to Gaius before settling his gaze on Arthur. "Whatever he can, I suppose," the youth replied stiffly.

Gaius frowned. "Ah." Something in his gaze made Merlin grimace. "I see."

"I'm pretty sure I've told you that," Merlin muttered.

"You can't possibly need Merlin that much," Arthur interjected. "He's absolutely useless with a sword, and honestly, he's more likely to trip over his own feet and die than he is to drive off bandits."

"That is  _not_  true," Merlin huffed. "And anyways, I have tons of other skills."

"Right." Arthur rolled his eyes. "Are you going to grind herbs at them?"

Merlin pulled up short. "Actually," he said slowly, "that's not a bad idea."

"I was being sarcastic!"

"But it might work." Merlin turned back to his country friend. "Will, there's this mixture that causes severe nausea and vomiting. It's really easy to make, and it doesn't have an odor or a taste."

Will's eyes went wide. "If you could get that into the bandits' camp—"

"They wouldn't be incapacitated right away. The potion takes an hour or so to take effect. Sometimes it takes longer, depending on the person."

"So? A downed bandit is a downed bandit."

"I don't suppose Kanen gave you lot a time for his next attack?"

"No, but it'll probably be close to dawn. It was early in the morning that they came the first time."

"So if I could get this into their breakfast…."

"Or someone else could," Arthur pointed out. Really, he was being perfectly reasonable. There was no reason for Will to glare at him like that. "It is supposedly a very easy mixture."

"It is," Merlin confirmed, but he was frowning. "Has Moira gotten any faster?"

Will snorted. Merlin winced. "That's what I thought." Turning to his employer, he said, "I think I'm going to need a few days off for this, Arthur. Moira is a good healer, but she's old and really, really slow and I don't know how many injuries there are going to be. I mean, we're fighting back, right?" He looked back at Will, who nodded. "That's what I assumed when you mentioned Father giving lessons. Do you think we'll need to bring back weapons?"

"Probably. Like I said, Sean is doing his best, but he's more used to hoes and horseshoes than swords."

Merlin nodded. "I have a friend whose father is a blacksmith. She'll know where to get everything."

"She?" Will grinned. "Is she pretty?"

"Gwen's lovely," Merlin replied, "but we're really just friends."

"Right." Will hadn't stopped grinning.

"It's true. I've written about Lancelot, right?"

"Oh." Comprehension lit Will's face. "She's that Gwen."

Merlin nodded. "Yeah. Guinevere isn't a very common name. How many Gwens did you think I know?"

"I don't know. How many Gwens  _do_  you know?"

As Arthur watched the two friends interacting, a strange emotion began to well up in his chest. Will hadn't done anything wrong or rude, but his presence grated on the prince's nerves. He didn't like him.

"Arthur? Arthur!"

The prince snapped out of his uncharacteristic introspection only when Merlin waved a hand in his face. "You all right, Arthur? You were being awfully quiet."

"I'm fine," he muttered, not wanting to admit to his bizarre grudge against Will. "When did you say we were leaving?"

Merlin blinked. "I'm sorry. We?"

"Yes, Merlin. We." Arthur hadn't planned it, hadn't even thought about it, but now that he'd said it out loud, he found himself determined to go with Merlin (and Will) to Ealdor. "I'm going with you. If everyone in Ealdor fights like you do, Merlin, then they'd be doomed without me."

"…But didn't your father have other plans?" Now Merlin just sounded confused.

"Well, yes," Arthur admitted, "but plans can be changed. Besides, I'm certain that the scouts will need time to locate the druid camps. We don't know any exact locations, and druids are good at hiding."

Merlin stiffened. "Right," he mumbled, looking almost sad.

Honestly, Arthur wasn't looking forward to the raids. He still sometimes had nightmares about that one awful time just a couple years ago. Yet he didn't think that was the sole reason he wanted to visit Ealdor, nor could he imagine what that other reason could be.

Perhaps he just wanted to get away from it all, to have time to think. Perhaps he wanted to see for himself that Cenred wouldn't help. Perhaps he wanted to do this as a gesture of goodwill to Essetir. It certainly wasn't a desire to keep his idiot bumbling oaf of a manservant safe.

Though, now that he thought of it, Merlin really would need protecting….

"Plans can be changed," he repeated.

"Okay," said Merlin. He still looked a bit confused, but that wasn't unusual for him.

"Spend the rest of the day gathering supplies," Arthur ordered him. "I'll explain to my father. We leave tomorrow at dawn."

Merlin groaned.

* * *

Ealdor was… quaint.

Arthur had spent most of his life in the main citadel of his father's kingdom, and he'd been fostered in a good-sized town. Sir Ector's home was roughly ten times bigger than Merlin's little village.

At a guess, he would say that the population was about three hundred men, women, and children. They were all clad in rough homespun clothing (no neckerchiefs though. That was apparently just Merlin's idea of fashion) in reds and blues and grays and browns. Most carried crude weapons, obviously hastily assembled.

That was the first thing they needed to fix.

"Right," said Guinevere. She had evidently come to the same conclusion. "Merlin, where's the best place to distribute Dad's weapons?"

"Sean's smithy is that way. Come on, I'll bring you there."

"I'll do it," Will volunteered. "Go to your parents, Merlin."

"Right."

"Give my regards to Mordred," Arthur instructed.

Merlin froze. For some reason, he suddenly looked very very guilty.

"Who's Mordred?" Will asked.

Arthur frowned, his brow furrowing. "Merlin's brother?"

"What?" Will stared at the prince as though he'd gone mad. "Merlin doesn't have a brother."

Merlin began to back away.

"Not so fast," Arthur growled, grabbing his manservant's arm before the boy could complete his escape. "If you blatantly lied to my face and Mordred is  _not_  your brother, who the hell is he?"

"…my cousin?"

"Was that a question or an answer?"

"My cousin," Merlin said quickly. "Yep, definitely my cousin. No idea how you got the impression he was my brother. Nope. None whatsoever."

"I got that idea because you told me he was."

Merlin's gaze darted here and there. Sweat beaded on his brow. "Memory is a funny thing," he babbled. "Maybe you only thought that I told you he was my brother because we look alike. We really do, you know. We're mistaken for brothers all the time. That's probably what happened."

"The druid boy," Morgana breathed.

Merlin blanched. "…or maybe I didn't want a young boy to die just because he was being raised by the druids, so I maybe might have just pretended he was my brother in order to keep me safe, but we're in Essetir now, so you can't legally prosecute me about it."

Arthur was horrified. "The druid—Merlin, do you have any idea how dangerous that was?"

"Danger is a relative thing," Merlin declared. "By saying that Mordred was my brother, I increased my danger but greatly decreased his, so overall, there was a net loss of danger. You have to look at the bigger picture here."

"If my father had found out," Arthur stated, low and clear and with more calm than he actually felt, "he would have killed you."

Merlin's babbling halted. Something dark entered his eyes. "I know," he said quietly. "Believe you me, Arthur, I know."

"Then why the hell did you—"

"What, was I supposed to let him die? He had just turned ten, Arthur. Ten!"

"Couldn't you have done something less likely to kill you?"

"No, actually."

"That's the wrong answer!"

"It's the only answer!"

"No, it's not!"

"So I  _should_ have let him—"

"Merlin!"

At the sound of the woman's voice, Merlin stopped in mid-tirade. He spun, his expression changing from furious to delighted. "Mother!"

A small, slender woman, her dark hair mostly covered by a headscarf, raced up to him, wrapped him in her arms. Merlin hugged her back, squeezing tight. The woman disengaged herself, stood on her tiptoes to give Merlin a kiss on his forehead. "I missed you," she said.

"I missed you too, Mother," Merlin replied. He was smiling now, his anger apparently completely forgotten, because he was an easily distracted idiot who didn't realize how much danger he'd been in when he decided to blatantly break the law in a fashion punishable by DEATH.

"I didn't think you would come," his mother said.

"Of course I came! This is where I'm from, and you're my family." He glanced up, his smile widening. "Both of you are."

Arthur followed Merlin's gaze to a dark-haired, dark-bearded man some years younger than Uther. He looked rather like Merlin, though without the younger man's unfortunate ears. Arthur could only assume that this was his father.

Sure enough, Merlin was moving to embrace him. "It's good to see you, Father."

"And you, Merlin. I trust that you haven't driven Gaius  _completely_ mad?"

"Not yet."

"'Yet' being the key word," Merlin's mother murmured.

"Your parents, I assume?" Arthur said. For now, he would follow Merlin's lead and not talk about his idiot habit of idiotically endangering himself like the idiot he was. They would talk later—and by talk, he meant that he would yell some, Merlin would yell back, and Arthur would out-yell him until he agreed to never risk his life again. It was foolproof.

"Yes." Merlin grinned, all animosity forgotten. "My mother, Hunith, and my father, Bael." His grin was even dopier than usual. "Mother, Father, the ladies are Morgana le Fey and Guinevere, or Gwen for short. The other one is Arthur. He followed me home, so can I keep him?"

"No," said Arthur flatly.

Bael, though, was looking him over with a very familiar look in his eyes. It seemed that Merlin had inherited his sense of humor from his father. "I don't know," the man answered. "Keeping a prince is a lot of responsibility."

Merlin rolled his eyes. "I know. But if you let me keep him, I will feed him and water him and walk him at least four times a day—"

At this point, Morgana lost the battle against the laughter she'd been trying so hard to contain. Merlin and his parents joined her. Even Guinevere giggled a bit, though she at least had the decency to try to disguise it as a cough.

Hunith was the first to recover. "Welcome," she said, smiling broadly at them. "Merlin's told us all about you through his letters. It's good to finally meet you." Without further ado, she embraced the startled visitors in a series of warm hugs, like she'd known them for years instead of just minutes—not that Arthur was complaining. Hunith's husband was more reserved, shaking Arthur's hand and kissing the girls' hands.

"Come inside," Hunith instructed, leading the travelers to one of the many tiny hovels bordering the woodlands.

Was this really where Merlin had grown up? It was so… tiny. And dark. Musty too, and the floor was made of  _dirt_. That couldn't be normal, could it? It was one thing to sleep on the ground while hunting, but surely most peasants installed some form of flooring, right?

"Are any of you hungry?" Hunith asked. "There's pottage on the fire, and bowls are over there." She pointed to a rough wooden cabinet, which her son was already rummaging through.

Arthur glanced at the pottage, wondering what exactly it was supposed to be. It looked like some sort of vegetable slop. Yet Merlin was happily filling the first of several bowls, which he offered to Morgana. She accepted it with a smile and a murmur of thanks. The next bowl went to Guinevere, who did the same. Arthur was next, and he forced himself to smile when Merlin tried to hand him the bowl. "I'm not hungry," he lied.

Merlin frowned slightly, but dismissed his misgivings with a shrug. "More for me then."

"Right."

If that was really what Merlin had grown up on, then no wonder he was so skinny.

When everybody was seated at the table, Morgana went right to the point. "We're here to help with Kanen," she said bluntly. "We've brought weapons. They're mostly swords, but there are a few spear points and arrowheads too. Since we didn't know what you already had planned, we thought it was better to be safe than sorry."

Bael grinned. "That's wonderful. The bow is the only weapon most villagers know how to use, but it's obviously not much use in close quarters. Our basic plan was to herd them with our arrows, then attack with close-range weapons when we couldn't keep shooting."

Arthur frowned. "A bit basic, don't you think?"

"If it works, it doesn't have to be complicated."

"I suppose you have a point," Arthur had to admit.

"We have a plan ourselves," Merlin said. "I guess it's a supplementary plan. I know how to make this mixture that induces vomiting. If we can get it into their stewpots—"

"—then we just might have the advantage we need to win this thing."

"Exactly!" Merlin pulled up short. "Um, assuming you know where the camp is, I suppose."

"We can find it," Hunith assured him. "But, Merlin, why do you even know about that potion?"

"In case someone swallows poison or something," her son explained. "It wouldn't be much use against fast-acting poisons, as it takes a little while to take effect, but it's very thorough about evacuating the stomach."

"Let's not go into details while we're eating," Guinevere suggested.

They continued to discuss strategy for the rest of the meal, going into detail, tweaking minutiae until everything was about as perfect as they could make it. Then it was off to the smithy, which apparently doubled as a temporary town hall (much to the smith's displeasure) to convince the people of Ealdor to go along with it. Much to Arthur's surprise, they agreed almost immediately. He'd expected Merlin's fellow villagers to be as stubborn as the fool boy himself.

Speaking of the fool boy, he had some yelling to do. Once everything was settled and Arthur returned to Hunith and Bael's hut (their small, tiny hut with a dirt floor), he fully intended to do that yelling. Unfortunately, it was sooner said than done.

"Guinevere?"

The young woman looked up, apparently surprised at being addressed. "Yes?"

"Do you know where my idiot manservant is?"

Something flickered in her dark eyes, but her voice remained smooth as she answered, "No, I don't."

"Of course not," Arthur muttered under his breath, because that would just be too convenient. Really, he ought to know better by now.

Guinevere stiffened. "That really wasn't necessary, Highness," she informed him.

"I didn't mean it that way," Arthur quickly assured her. "It's just that nothing involving Merlin is ever simple, and he's probably hiding from me, too."

Guinevere inclined her head. "Perhaps," she said, still stiff.

Arthur frowned at her, not understanding her reticence. "I'm not going to yell at him too much," he assured her. "And it's not like I'm going to hurt him."

"I think you already have." As soon as the words escaped her mouth, Guinevere's eyes went wide. Her hands flew up to cover her mouth.

"What do you mean?" Arthur demanded, his brow crinkling.

Guinevere hesitated, but something—whether an innate respect for the truth a desire to defend her friend, Arthur didn't know—made her answer. "His parents have welcomed you into their home. They don't have much, they're obviously poor people, but they're offering everything they  _do_  have to you, and you're throwing it back into their faces like it's not good enough, like Merlin and his family and his home aren't good enough. He isn't going to say anything, but you've hurt his feelings. Hunith's too. And Bael is angry with you.  _That's_  what I meant, Arthur Pendragon."

"…Oh."

The maid winced. "Oh, I shouldn't have said that," she muttered. "I'm so—"

"No. I'm glad you did."

Guinevere met his eyes, confusion writ clear across her face.

"You're right," Arthur told her.

"I suppose I am," she murmured, still nonplussed.

Arthur laughed. After a moment, Guinevere joined him; her laugh was low and clear and blended rather nicely with his. "I suppose you are."

* * *

"The pond is that way," Merlin said, gesturing into the woods. "We shouldn't go out there now because we need our rest for tomorrow and especially for the day after, when the bandits come, but maybe I can show you tomorrow if we have some spare time."

"Is it far away?"

"Not really. I'd say about ten minutes, if that."

"Then we could make it there and back by sunset," Morgana said. "Will you show me, Merlin?"

"But there are bandits out there."

Morgana touched the sword at her hip. "This isn't just for decoration, you know." Her grin became devilish. "Not like yours is."

Merlin grinned back. His hand drifted to the hilt of his own blade. "I'll have you know that I'm not  _completely_  hopeless with this. Leon said so. Even Arthur says that I'm only ninety percent hopeless."

"Really? I thought you were at eighty-five."

"Nope, ninety. But are you sure you want to go tonight? I probably can't protect you by myself."

Morgana refrained from mentioning that she was more likely to protect him. "No, I'd like to go tonight. Show me?"

"As my lady commands," Merlin replied, bowing with a flourish.

Morgana rolled her eyes but didn't comment. She spent the short walk to the pond listening to Merlin's cheery chatter, only occasionally responding. Once they reached the pond, though, her demeanor changed. It was time to tell him why she'd gotten him alone. "I'm glad you saved the druid boy."

"Huh?" The change of subject made Merlin blink owlishly at her. "You mean Mordred?"

Morgana nodded. "I mean Mordred. I'm glad you saved him, Merlin. He was just a child. He didn't deserve to die."

There was sadness in those blue eyes, sadness and something like exhaustion. "No. He didn't."

"I take it that you don't approve of Uther's laws either?"

Merlin became very still.

Gwen had tried to tell her, Morgana now knew, had tried to tell her that Merlin could be on her side if the truth of her dreams ever came out. She couldn't tell her friend Mordred's real origins, for she'd been bound by a promise, but how many times had she suggested that Merlin could help, should the worst happen? Looking back, she actually felt rather silly for missing all those hints.

"That's dangerous talk," Merlin finally said.

"Who's going to hear it?"

A slight smile. "True, I suppose." He hesitated, stared at her sideways. When he spoke, his voice was very quiet. "If Arthur learns the truth about magic, he'll change the laws."

"And you're trying to help him learn," Morgana breathed.

"I think I've made some progress," Merlin whispered.

On impulse, Morgana grabbed his hand. Huge blue eyes met her own determined green orbs. "I'll help."

"But if Uther finds out—"

"—then no matter how much he loves me, I won't be safe. I know." Morgana squeezed his hand tight. Her free hand curled into a fist. "But sometimes you have to do what's right and damn the consequences."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Merlin et al Increase Their Danger Levels While Simultaneously Greatly Reducing the Danger to Ealdor, So Overall, There was a Net Loss of Danger (You Have to Look at the Bigger Picture Here)"


	31. Bandits and Bullies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fight for Ealdor.

Chapter XXXI: Bandits and Bullies

"Are you sure that you're doing this for entirely altruistic reasons?"

"Course not," Merlin replied breezily. "I'm doing this whole poison thing so no one knows I have magic, just like Father was training people in weapons and whatnot rather than nicely asking Kilgharrah to roast the bandits."

"Not what I meant," Will told him.

Merlin arched a brow. "What other possible non-altruistic reason could I have for getting up at an ungodly hour of the morning, sneaking into a bandit camp, and floating my poison into their breakfast?"

"Avoiding Arthur."

"…Oh." Merlin's ears reddened. "I suppose I can see why you would think that. But I'm not avoiding him. Of course not. Why would a mighty warlock like myself cower before a mere prince?" The mighty warlock snootily lifted his nose into the air. Unfortunately, this resulted in him taking his eyes off the uneven ground and immediately tripping over his own feet. His eyes wide, arms windmilling frantically, the mighty warlock went down.

"That," Will told him. "That is why."

Merlin's face turned the color of his neckerchief. He was almost glad it was so early, for Will couldn't make out his blushes in the predawn gloom. "I think he's going to yell at me about Mordred."

"You think?" Will offered his friend a hand, helped him to his feet.

"Yeah. But I'm pretty sure it's only because he cares."

"How sure is pretty sure?"

"Dunno. Maybe seventy percent?"

"You're the one who knows," Will reminded him. "But we're getting close. We need to stop talking now."

Merlin mimed sewing shut his lips—there was light enough for that, at least. Will just rolled his eyes.

Still, they remained quiet as they approached, slowing their pace and slipping behind trees. Most of their reduced speed was probably for Merlin's benefit, he knew, for Will was quite the talented hunter—perhaps better than Arthur, who hunted for sport and not for survival. They probably would have become friends if they hadn't taken an immediate and irrational dislike to each other for reasons that Merlin couldn't begin to fathom. (Gwen seemed to know, but she'd just shaken her head in fond exasperation and muttered something about men when he'd asked, Morgana nodding her agreement.)

The camp was easy to spot, mostly because the bandits weren't exactly trying to hide. They knew as well as Ealdor that Cenred wouldn't lift a finger to protect such a small village, and they had no way of knowing that the people would fight back. They knew nothing of the training or the Camelot-forged weapons or the young spellbinder crouching in the bushes staring at their fire—or, more specifically, at the cook-pot suspended above the fire. Occasionally the bored-looking fellow sitting beside it would give the contents a stir.

Merlin signaled Will to step back. Once they were far enough away, the warlock murmured, "I can't let that man see the bottle."

"I thought you could just make things invisible?" Will asked, frowning. "Didn't your Blaise fellow teach you that?"

"He did," Merlin admitted, "but have you ever tried to levitate something invisible with any degree of precision?"

"Can't say I have."

"Well, I have, and it's really difficult. We either need to make a distraction or I have to go invisible and walk in there myself."

"…So how should I distract him?"

They quickly decided that Will ought to make some noise on the other side of the camp, then run before anybody noticed him. It was not, admittedly, a particularly complex plan, but sometimes simplicity is the best. Except Will didn't need to do anything, for when they arrived back at the camp, it was to discover that two other men had joined the first around the pot. They were talking and laughing uproariously, completely ignoring their (probably burnt by now) breakfast. Not being one to look such a convenient gift horse in the eye, Merlin shrugged his shoulders and levitated the potions vial over the pot. When he had emptied it out (and risked stirring the spoon around a couple of times, just to make sure there wasn't a painfully obvious puddle of foreign material on top of the food), the warlock dumped the vial into the fire.

"You know," Will said, "that was a lot easier than I expected."

"Same here," Merlin had to admit. "But I'm not going to complain, you know?"

Will smiled. "Yeah. Me neither. So how long until that stuff takes effect?"

Merlin smirked. "Normally it would vary a bit."

"Normally?" Will repeated, sprouting a grin of his own.

"There's this old healer's trick that Gaius told me about. It's a spell to make sure that a potion acts when the spell caster wants it to act. Normally it's used to speed up medicines, like making a potion that takes two hours to take effect start working as soon as it's downed. But it's possible to use that same spell to prevent the potion from taking effect until the spell caster—namely me—wants. So basically, they're going to get sick when they're in the village."

Will nodded. "Because we don't want them getting sick and staying home to attack another day."

"Exactly."

"You know, Merlin, you're kind of useful to have around."

"Thanks. Would you mind telling that to Arthur?"

"I thought you were avoiding him?"

"You're not."

"Good point. I'm guessing you want me to mention this before he yells at you?"

"That would be appreciated, yeah."

"Well," Will drawled, "I suppose that since you  _are_  a bit more useful than you look…."

"Thanks," Merlin said. Then, "I've really missed you, Will."

"You too," his friend sighed, the expression of sardonic amusement falling from his face. "Are you sure you won't be staying?"

"I'm sure," Merlin replied. "It's like I told you. This might be the only chance anyone gets to change Arthur's mind about magic."

"And how's that working for you?"

The warlock huffed. "It's going slower than I'd hoped," he had to admit. "A lot slower. But I think I'm making progress, you know? He's started questioning Uther's policy towards druids, and Gaius finally disabused him of this weird notion he had that magic turned you evil like some kind of soul poison."

"But if you think about it, that's still more progress than anyone's made in… um, he's twenty-one, right?"

"Yeah. He just turned a few weeks ago."

"Okay. That's still more progress than anyone's made in twenty-one years, then."

"I know," Merlin sighed. "And I know that I just have to be patient. It's just hard sometimes."

Will laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Yeah. I bet it is. But think of it this way—won't all the waiting make the payoff even more worthwhile?"

Merlin's lips twitched. "Yeah. Maybe it will."

"Just don't forget that Arthur isn't your sole purpose of existence, okay? And come and visit once in a while."

"Gotcha."

The rest of the trip passed in silence, each youth lost in his own thoughts. But Merlin knew that Will's thoughts hadn't strayed far, for when they arrived back at the village, he gave the warlock's shoulder a tight squeeze before making his way to his position. Merlin headed to the forge, the impromptu headquarters for the defenders. Arthur, Gwen, and Morgana were there, as were several other villagers.

"Did it work?" Balinor asked.

Merlin nodded. "It worked. They didn't even have sentries, they were so arrogant."

"Any sign of them moving?"

"No. They seemed pretty relaxed. I'd say we still have two hours or so."

"Good," Arthur said. "That means we have time to finish the second barricades." He gestured to some of the younger, bulkier men. "Come on."

The forge felt a great deal less crowded with Arthur and his workers gone. "Does everyone have weapons?" Gwen asked. "I still have a few swords left over."

"Merlin doesn't," Morgana observed.

The warlock flushed. "I told you, I'm supposed to be a healer here."

"That doesn't mean you won't be attacked," Morgana pointed out.

"She's right," Hunith agreed. "Take a sword, Merlin."

"I'm better with the stave," he muttered, but took one anyway.

"Is everyone clear on the plan?" Balinor asked after ascertaining that no one else needed to be armed. There were nods all around. The dragonlord grinned. "Good. If that's the case, we should spend the next couple hours resting and making sure our weapons are in good shape. Gwen, Sean, you two stay here in case there are problems that need smithing."

The two nodded their assent. Sean tossed another log into the fire.

"Try to be in position in an hour and a half," Balinor instructed. "We don't want to have to scramble when the sentries give the signal."

Merlin followed his parents out of the forge. His stomach was doing strange things, which it really shouldn't because he knew that if anything went wrong, he could use magic to save the day. Then the warlock realized what he was thinking. A rueful smile appeared on his face. Maybe the thought of using magic was responsible for the twisting in his belly.

"The waiting is always the worst part," Balinor said. Merlin started, looked questioningly at his father. The older man had an understanding smile on his face. "It's completely normal, Merlin. You'll feel better when the battle starts and you can actually do something."

"If you say so," Merlin mumbled, not entirely convinced.

Balinor rested a hand on his son's shoulder. "Everything will be fine, Merlin," he promised quietly. "The villagers aren't professionally trained knights, but they're competent with their weapons, have a plan, and are fighting for their families. The bandits think that this will be an easy conquest, but they're going to be vomiting all over themselves in just a couple hours and don't know anything about our other defenses either, not if they were truly arrogant enough to not post sentries."

"But people will die," Merlin said softly.

Balinor sighed. "Everyone dies," he murmured, eyes going distant. "But not today."

"Not today," his son replied. The words, the defiance, made him feel a little better. "I should probably go to Moira, make sure that everything is ready."

"I'm sure she would appreciate that."

"Not really," Merlin answered dryly. "She never liked me or Mother, I think because Mother had Gaius attend her when I was born. She's the sort who sees that as an insult. But she is the only healer Ealdor has."

"No, she isn't," Balinor pointed out.

"On a permanent basis, I mean," Merlin amended. "And she does know her herbs, I'll give her that. She knows them a lot better than I do. She's just so bloody slow…." He grimaced. "Another reason that I'd best go help her."

"You sound so enthusiastic," his father teased.

"That's because I am," the warlock sighed.

Still, it did need doing, even if it meant spending his supposedly restful final hours under the direction of an old crone who actively disliked him, his mother, and (surprise, surprise) his father too. Her rebuke's weren't like Arthur's. The prince's voice was laced with fondness whenever he called his manservant an idiot. Moira, though, was nowhere near as fond.

Merlin was almost glad when the battle began.

* * *

Arthur's focus narrowed. His hand gripped tight his sword as his eyes zoned in on the rapidly approaching bandits, none of whom, he observed sourly, appeared to be ill.

Then one leaned over and threw up all over his comrade's shoes, forcing Arthur to reassess Merlin's success.

As if the first man's vomiting was some sort of signal, the others started to double over, gagging and retching. Perhaps the sight of their fellow bandit's sick was enough to make them give into their own nausea. Whatever the reason, they were very conveniently hesitating  _just_  within the archers' range.

"Archers, nock," Arthur ordered, placing an arrow on his own bow. Archery was one of his least favorite techniques—give him a good spear or sword any day—but while he wasn't fond of it (or, if he was painfully honest, quite as good at it as he wanted to be), Arthur was more than capable of handling a bow. "Aim," the prince commanded. "Go for the ones who look less debilitated. Now hold… hold… fire!"

The villagers released their grips on their bowstrings. Arrows zoomed out towards the bandits. Not everybody aimed true: several arrows fell well short of their mark. Yet enough projectiles connected with arms or legs or torsos that a great cheer went up from the villagers. Arthur didn't join in—the battle wasn't over yet—but he allowed himself a smile of grim satisfaction.

"NOCK!" the prince bellowed, grabbing another arrow. The bandits were running at them now, pinned in by the hastily assembled barriers of earth and wood now surrounding Ealdor, staggering from nausea and injury but still armed and dangerous, and soon it would likely be time for hand-to-hand. Hopefully the thieves would see sense before that, but Arthur wasn't willing to bet anybody's life on it. "AIM! FIRE!"

They got two more rounds off before the bandits (greatly reduced in number, with some having fallen and others having fled, but the remainder were furious, more deadly than before) were on them. Arthur tossed his bow aside, drew his sword from the sheath. In the sunlight, the blade almost seemed to glow. A familiar battle cry rose to the prince's lips, but he bit it back. This was not Camelot.

"FOR EALDOR!"

"EALDOR!" the villagers screamed, and charged the bandits.

The first bandit to face him had no armor but a jerkin of boiled leather, and his sword was chipped and dented. It was almost pitifully easy to sidestep his clumsy blow, to strike back. The sword went flying, and Arthur's blade circled around to graze the bandit's throat. "Surrender or die," the prince snapped.

"I surrender," the bandit whimpered. His eyes were very wide, the whites showing all the way around.

Two more thieves, perhaps wishing to save their fellow or maybe just thinking that Arthur was distracted enough to kill, came at him. These two were better equipped than the first: a shining breastplate for the first, greaves and vambraces for the second. Their swords were sharp and shining, the blades perfectly smooth.

Arthur spun, slipping between the two bandits. Carried by their momentum, the two bandits passed him, but they quickly turned themselves around. In doing so, the one with greaves and vambraces overbalanced slightly, whipping his arms out in a vain attempt to catch himself. Arthur stabbed him, blade sliding easily between his opponent's ribs, piercing his withered heart.

The first bandit, enraged by the death of his comrade, roared his fury. He hacked wildly at the prince. Arthur dodged, jerking for his own sword, but it was stuck. The prince spat a curse. He dropped his blade (and, more importantly, the corpse attached to it) and rolled under the bandit's next swing. Still on all fours, Arthur grabbed the other man around the knees. He yanked, and the bandit fell, his arms windmilling around him. He nearly dropped his sword.

Arthur pushed himself to his feet, aimed a kick at his fallen opponent. His foot connected with the thief's nose. Blood streamed from both his nostrils, and he instinctively raised his hands to his face. Arthur took advantage of his distraction to go for his sword. Keeping one foot on the corpse's chest, he drew with all his might. This time his sword slid free, rising from the dead bandit's heart in a spray of red. It was easier than Arthur had expected, so he overbalanced slightly—a weakness that his opponent was quick to press.

The first bandit—not the one with the breastplate and the broken nose but the very first, the one who had surrendered—swung at Arthur's arm. He had a different blade, the prince noted, probably one picked up from one of his fallen comrades. That different blade connected. It wasn't high-enough quality to break through Arthur's armor, but it unbalanced him just a little bit more. The bandit lifted his sword to strike—

-and promptly threw up.

Well, that was good timing.

Arthur had never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. In a split second he had regained his balance and landed his own blow. The bandit's head went flying. Without stopping his momentum, Arthur whirled on his heel, dripping sword aimed at the bandit with the breastplate.

But the bandit with the breastplate was running away, him and a good dozen of his fellows. This wasn't an effort to regroup but a panicked retreat. They hadn't expected a bunch of peasants to put up such a fight. They had expected to go in and out without repercussions, much less casualties, because they knew that the people of Ealdor were too weak to fight back. Now, faced with someone they couldn't bully into submission, they revealed themselves as the cowards they were.

But however cowardly the majority of Kanen's men were, there were still a few fighting in the streets of Ealdor. Blood and puke ran down their fronts, but they held their blades in unwavering hands.

Arthur charged.

Two bandits had cornered a trio of women. They were putting up a fierce fight—each held a weapon stained with red—but it was painfully obvious that they were injured and inexperienced, not to mention that the bandits they were fighting actually had decent armor. Arthur barreled into the one, his own red blade making short work of the rogue. By the time he was finished, the women had dispatched the other bandit.

"Thank you, Prince Arthur," one said, her voice hoarse with thirst and exertion.

Arthur smiled back at her. "No, thank you."

And then he was away.

The battle was essentially over by now. The few bandits who hadn't fled were vastly outnumbered, and about half of those flung down their weapons and cried out for mercy. The others were falling rapidly. Over there, Hunith and Bael had trapped a desperate filthy man between them; over there, Will and two girls who could only be his sisters searched for another target. Their searching eyes couldn't find one.

Ealdor had won.

The villagers seemed to realize that all at once. They let out a cheer, ragged at first, but rapidly gaining volume and spirit. They were laughing, whooping, hugging each other and chattering excitedly.

"Did you see me take that one with the beard?"

"That was awesome!"

"I can't believe we actually did it!"

"We  _did_  it!"

"We won! We won!"

"Arthur, are you injured?"

It took the prince a moment to realize that the last statement didn't come from the cacophony of background noise. "No, Morgana, I'm fine."

"Good," she said, "because Merlin and Moira have enough to do."

There were two casualties among the folk of Ealdor. Arthur didn't look at them. Instead, he helped first one, then another wounded man over to the healers. Merlin moved with surprising competence, deftly binding wounds in the clean cloth he'd cut beforehand. The other healer, a positively ancient woman called Moira, was almost painfully slow in comparison. Apparently, Merlin really  _had_  been needed as a healer.

Thanks in part to his apparently-not-so-useless-after-all manservant's quick hands, the two villagers who had died in the battle itself were the only ones to perish. They were burnt that night, their bones buried in the village lichyard as their friends and families wept. The dead bandits—and Arthur was viciously glad to see that there were more of those than deceased villagers—were burnt as well, though they did not have mourners or eulogies, nor did they have a specially marked grave. The twelve dead bandits were buried in an unmarked pit.

By the time true darkness had fallen, Arthur was exhausted. He, like Hunith and Bael's other houseguests, collapsed into a heap.

He dreamed of the knights of Camelot, valiant men in red cloaks and iron mail, their cloaks shining as they fought bandits. He dreamed of grateful, safe, happy villagers who  _knew_  they were protected and cared for, who didn't have to be afraid like Ealdor had been afraid. He dreamed that he was the king who freed his people from fear.

When he woke up, he was smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Arthur and a Bunch of Half-trained Villagers Pwn Kanen and his Thieving Bullies"
> 
> Boring alternate title, I know, but it's to the point. Succinctness is funny, right?
> 
> Next chapter, we return to Camelot and get to meet a pretty prancing unicorn. Yay!


	32. The Keeper and the Unicorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Merlin meet a very special pony.

Chapter XXXII: The Keeper and the Unicorn

For once, Merlin was glad to accompany Arthur on one of his hunting trips.

Uther was in rare form these days. He had sent men out after the druids rather than wait for his son's return, which had upset Arthur when he returned. Merlin wasn't quite sure why and didn't know if he wanted to know, so he didn't ask about the prince's reaction. Hopefully, Arthur had wanted to go along to mitigate the damage, if not sabotage the entire enterprise. Hopefully. Probably, Merlin tried to tell himself, but that didn't make the queasy little feeling in his stomach go away.

But the point was, Uther had sent out men practically the minute Arthur left the citadel. They had gone on missions all over the kingdom, hunting for druids to butcher. Three hundred knights had ridden forth… and not one of them had slain a single druid.

There were still two parties that hadn't returned, but one had sent word ahead (no, Sire, nothing) and Merlin and pretty much everybody else highly doubted that the last group of knights had been any more successful than the first nineteen companies.

His one worry was that someone might suspect Gaius. It was hardly uncommon knowledge that the physician had once practiced sorcery, and Uther had recently accused him of softening Arthur's views of magic. No one had said anything so far, but Merlin had seen several people shoot penetrating stares at his mentor when the man's back was turned.

Fortunately, no one had gone further than suspicious staring. This was because Uther had decided it was all Merlin's fault. Well, not Merlin so much as "that blasted sorcerer who tried to steal Arthur's face," but still Merlin. Emrys. Whatever. The point was that the king had already decided on his culprit, and in a way, he was right. Merlin had been the one to convince Gaius to go to Blaise if the knights were sent out before his return.

The guards had just finished another search of the city, going through houses in a failed attempt to find Merlin's alter ego. They did not succeed. Gaius and Geoffrey had suggested that "the sorcerer" had gotten his information from scrying, which had made Uther frown almost thoughtfully. "He could not have scried within the castle itself," the king finally said. "But once the companies left…." He ground his teeth together. "Gaius, you need to research non-magical ways of protecting against scrying."

"Of course," the physician had replied. He'd spent the last four days buried in books, making Merlin take on the lion's share of medical work in addition to his servant duties.

So, between the overwork, Uther's foul temper, and Arthur's foul temper as a result of Uther's foul temper, Merlin was rather glad to get away from it all. He just wished that it wasn't a hunting trip. Couldn't they take a nice walk or go for a ride or something? But no, Arthur wanted to shoot at some innocent little bunnies that had never done anything to him, and Merlin had to follow the prince everywhere except the privy, so he had to tag along too.

Still, despite his worry for those poor bunnies, Merlin found himself enjoying the day. The sun was shining, birds were singing, and a bunch of other pleasant things were going on. It was just him and Arthur, who hadn't found any prey yet but was already unwinding.

"Beautiful day," Merlin observed, grinning up at the cloudless sky.

"Yes," Arthur agreed, "but we're  _hunting_ , Merlin. That means you have to be quiet."

"None of the other birds are being quiet."

"What?"

"The other birds," Merlin said, gesturing vaguely at the trees. "Merlins are birds, you know, and the birds are singing."

"What have I told you about trying to be funny?"

"Don't do it in front of your father," was Merlin's automatic reply.

"Just don't do it," Arthur corrected him. "And don't sing either."

Merlin opened his mouth to protest, but then Arthur waved his (unloaded) crossbow at him and he shut up instead.

They kept going for awhile before stumbling across some tracks. They followed the tracks to one of the biggest rabbits Merlin had ever seen. It took one look at them and bolted, diving into a hole not two feet away from its original location. Arthur didn't even have time to load his bow.

"That was your fault," the prince proclaimed.

"Excuse me?"

"You're too noisy," Arthur groused. "It heard you coming a mile away."

"Then why was it looking directly at you?"

Arthur didn't respond. Instead, he covered Merlin's mouth. The warlock glared, already planning a snappy comment about how forcibly shutting him up wouldn't make him any less right, but then he heard it too. Something was moving through the trees. Something big.

_Not more bandits,_  Merlin thought. And he didn't want it to be exiled Sidhe either. Or a griffin. Really, there were a great many things that he didn't want the large something to be. Hopefully it was just a deer.

"You're going to flush it out for me," Arthur murmured, so low that Merlin could hardly hear him. "And no, you don't get to protest."

"And if it's a bandit?"

Arthur just grinned and hefted his crossbow.

Merlin huffed softly but obeyed. He slunk around the little clearing he knew was right ahead, examining the trees to see which ones, if any, were rotted. Nothing. Well, he'd made branches fall from un-rotten trees before and no one had said anything, so he could probably get away with it again. Arthur could be extremely oblivious sometimes.

Then Merlin saw what was in the clearing, and all thoughts of banditry fled his mind.

The unicorn was beautiful, with fur the color of molten moonlight and chestnut hooves and a crystalline horn that glimmered with rainbows. The tail and mane were a bit darker, smoke instead of silver, and its large, soulful eyes were blacker than jet. Those deep, solemn eyes were fixed on Merlin, who stared back, transfixed. He didn't blink. He barely  _breathed._

Though most of Merlin's attention was on the creature's head, part of him took in the rest of the unicorn. Its legs were long and lean, its back straight, its neck a graceful arch. It was beautiful, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

The unicorn lowered its head. Its forelegs bent, and for one horrible second Merlin feared that Arthur had shot it, that it was collapsing in pain and weakness. But no. It was… it was bowing to him, this incredible creature of magic had seen him and was kneeling before him in an equine gesture of respect. It was bowing to him, its face bathed in rainbows, its eyes respectful and knowing.

"Merlin?"

The voice jolted Merlin out of his trance, reminding him that they weren't alone. Arthur was here too. Arthur, the hunter, who was right there with his crossbow nocked and ready to fire.

"Don't shoot," Merlin begged. With some effort, he dragged his gaze away from the unicorn, which had come out of its position of reverence and was also turning to face the prince. Arthur stood in plain sight, his arrow loosely held to the bowstring but pointing down into the earth. He was staring at the unicorn with a hesitant, uncertain expression, his brows furrowed together.

"Don't shoot," Merlin pleaded again. The thought of that white pelt pierced and stained with red made bile rise in his throat. "Please, Arthur, please don't shoot."

The prince frowned. He lifted the bow ever so slightly (Merlin's heart leapt into his throat), lowered it, raised it again. His head tilted to the side as his eyes narrowed, taking aim. The crossbow ascended, arrow pointed directly at the unicorn.

"No. Arthur,  _please_."

Arthur's hands were shaking.

The unicorn nickered softly, almost curiously. It took a step forward.

"Merlin."

"Arthur?"

"Get out of the way."

"What?"

"Get out of the way," Arthur snarled. "This thing is going to run right past you once I shoot."

"No!"

The unicorn's head jerked up at Merlin's cry of horror.

Arthur grit his teeth. His shaking hands stilled. "I'm not going to shoot the bloody unicorn, Merlin. I'm going to scare the damn thing away from Camelot."

"Oh." Merlin's shoulders drooped with relief. "Oh, good."

"Yes, good. Now  _move._ "

Merlin moved, taking cover behind a tree.

Arthur loosed.

The arrow plunged into the ground by the unicorn's feet, kicking up an explosion of earth. It danced back, the very picture of grace, then turned on its heels and ran. The creature vanished almost immediately into the trees.

Arthur lowered his bow, wiped a hand across his brow. His face was slick with perspiration, though not from the heat of the day. Looking at him, Merlin realized that he had been sweating too.

"How very interesting."

Merlin nearly jumped out of his skin. Across the clearing, Arthur leapt half a foot into the air, spinning to face the source of the voice.

There was an old man standing with them in the clearing, someone who Merlin was quite certain had not been there before. He wore white robes only a few shades lighter than his hair, and his blue eyes were almost as dark and deep and knowing as the unicorn's had been. In one hand he clutched a staff, though Merlin would bet Beóthaich that it was no ordinary walking stick.

The old man smiled his approval at them. "I was sorely afraid when Nimueh stole Cloudmane from her herd, but it seems I ought not to have worried."

"Nimueh?" Merlin breathed.

Arthur's response was louder. "Who the hell are you?"

"I am Anhora of Gedref, Keeper of the Unicorns."

"Keeper of the…. You're a sorcerer," Arthur realized. His grip tightened on his bow, but he didn't reach for another arrow. Merlin decided to count that as a victory.

"So I am," Anhora confirmed, completely unconcerned with the armed, dangerous, and potentially hostile warrior before him. "A mage."

Arthur's entire body was rigid, tight as a bowstring before firing. "What are you doing in Camelot?" he demanded.

"I sought Cloudmane," the old man explained. "Nimueh stole her away, doubtless in the hope that you would shoot her and invoke a terrible curse upon your entire kingdom. You did well to listen to your advisor and spare her."

"Who exactly is Nimueh?" Arthur asked. Was it Merlin's imagination, or did he sound a mite less hostile than before?

Something flashed in Anhora's eyes. "Ask your father," he advised. "Now I must needs return Cloudmane. Farewell, both of you."

"Wait—"

But Anhora was gone. No spell, no whirlwind, just there one moment and gone the next. According to Blaise, that indicated a great deal of finesse as well as power. Merlin found himself very glad that Anhora was friendlier than Arthur.

The prince swore. Merlin ignored him.

" _Anhora?"_  he called tentatively, extending just the barest finger of his magic. " _Are you still there?"_

" _Well met, Lord_   _Emrys,_ " the elder spellbinder replied.

Merlin choked a little. " _I'm no lord. I'm just Merlin. But what I wanted to ask was, did Nimueh give any indication of what she was planning?"_

" _No, 'just Merlin,'"_ Anhora answered. " _I could deduce the purpose of her theft well enough, but I know not what she will do now that this scheme has failed. Rest assured, however, that she will not penetrate my defenses again."_  There was a hint of stolid resolve in the mind-voice, steel and stone and good old-fashioned stubbornness.

Merlin smiled slightly. " _Good. Um, what exactly would have happened if Arthur_ had _shot the unicorn?"_

" _A horrible curse would have befallen Camelot. Wells would dry, grain would rot, crops would wither in the field. Milk would sour, wine spoil, and maggots burst from even the freshest meat. Beasts would bring forth stillbirths and human women would fail to conceive. Famine and disease would fall upon the land until the killer had atoned or perished."_

" _Oh,"_  said Merlin, a bit queasy at how close they'd come to utter destruction.

" _You have done good work with him,_ " Anhora said. " _But now I truly must return to the Labyrinth of Gedref. You are welcome to come at any time, if your heart desires and your duties permit. I would be honored… Lord Emrys."_

" _I'm not—"_  Merlin began, but the connection shattered. Anhora had returned home.

"Merlin!"

The warlock started, surprised to hear a voice outside his head. "Arthur?"

"I said," Arthur growled, "that we're going back now."

"We are?"

Arthur moaned, lifted his face to the heavens. "Why?" he whined.

"Because your father gave me this position after the first time I saved your life, that's why."

"Remember what I've told you about trying to be clever? No, don't answer that," he amended, correctly interpreting Merlin's mischievous eyes and open mouth as a comeback in the making. "Let's just go home."

Merlin smiled, gave an exaggerated courtly bow. "As His Highness commands."

"…Shut up, Merlin."

* * *

"Nimueh."

"Anhora."

The two spellbinders glared at each other, their expressions thunderous. "You went too far, Nimueh," the Keeper of the Unicorns growled.

The sorceress inclined her head. "You have my apologies, Keeper."

The warlock scoffed. "Apologies mean nothing without sincerity, and only a fool would think you were sincere. Do you think me a fool, Nimueh?"

Red lips curved up. "I don't know. Are you?"

"I believe that you have us confused."

Darkness flared in Nimueh's eyes, but she covered it with a sweet little smile. "Oh? Tell me, my dear old friend, do you find my attempts to overthrow the monster who would burn us all—us and your precious unicorns as well—foolishness?"

"Yes, I do. Shall I list the reasons why?"

"Go ahead."

Anhora frowned, doubtless expecting a trap. He waited a moment for the next part of Nimueh's statement, but when it was not forthcoming, he inclined his head in resolution. "Very well. First, you are a fool for invoking the curse of the unicorn. You are a High Priestess. You ought to know better than to dabble in wild magicks!"

Nimueh made a heroic effort to not roll her eyes and almost succeeded.

Apparently oblivious to his audience's disdain (or, more likely, choosing to ignore it), Anhora continued, "Second, you are a fool for making Emrys your enemy."

"You're wrong," Nimueh interrupted. "Emrys is a fool for making me his enemy."

"So you know who he is," Anhora said.

Nimueh shrugged. "I didn't at first," she confessed. "I thought him some idiot young mage content with crumbs when he deserved the whole feast. Then I realized that Merlin Caledonensis is not just Merlin Caledonensis."

"And yet you oppose him all the same." Anhora tilted his head. "Why? You are  _aware_  of his destiny, are you not?"

"Of course I am," the sorceress snapped. "Emrys is the one to restore magic to the land, the one to end the time of smoke and darkness." Her eyes bored into his. "He is also the one who chooses the Once and Future King."

Anhora shook his head. "The gods chose the Once and Future King."

"No, they did not," Nimueh hissed. "The prophecies are very clear that Emrys  _makes_  the King. Would you like to know  _why_ I stole your unicorn?"

The change of subject obviously caught Anhora off-guard. Nimueh didn't wait for him to answer. "I sent the unicorn to Merlin to show him exactly what his precious prince was made of. It was a test that I knew Arthur Pendragon would fail."

"And yet," Anhora reminded her, "he did not."

Red stained the priestess's cheeks. "And I'm sure your meddling had nothing to do with it," she sneered. Once again, she denied Anhora the opportunity to answer before carrying on. "With the unicorn dead and the kingdom cursed, Merlin would have been forced to choose another King, a  _better_  King. Gods know it wouldn't be difficult to find someone more suitable than Uther Pendragon's son."

"Ygraine Pendragon's son, perhaps?" the Keeper suggested.

The woman's mouth twisted. "He looks like his mother, aye, but his heart is all Uther. Don't you  _dare_  bring Ygraine into this."

"Why not?"

Nimueh whirled towards him. "Because Ygraine was my friend, and Uther has dishonored her memory enough without you adding to it. Don't push me on this, Anhora." Her fists clenched, and a spark of gold lit her eyes. "You will not like the results."

"As you say," the man murmured, inclining his head, "her memory has been dishonored enough." He looked up, his eyes almost pitying. "But this does not change the fact that destiny has chosen Ar—"

"Destiny has chosen  _Emrys_ ," Nimueh reiterated. "Emrys chooses the King. Haven't you read the Albion Cycle?"

"I have," Anhora replied. "Many times. And I must confess that I'm not at all familiar with the prophecy you're referencing."

This time, Nimueh didn't bother trying to not roll her eyes. She wanted Anhora to see. "The prophecies call him the Kingmaker. They are  _very_  explicit about that."

"Making a king—even this King—is not the same as choosing him."

"Clearly you're not ready to see reason," Nimueh sneered.

"Strange," Anhora retorted. "I was about to say the same."

"Whatever for?" Nimueh demanded. "I'll leave your little ponies alone. You have my solemn word. Isn't that reasonable of me?"

"And what of Emrys?"

" _Emrys_  will be safe, Anhora. Fear not."

"And the Once and Future King?"

"Didn't I tell you? The Vates prophesied that no Pendragon would die at my hand"

"Nimueh—"

But she was gone.

Back in her cave, Nimueh seethed. How  _dare_  that self-righteous do-gooder question her!  _She_  was the one who had fought for their kin while he cowered in his little maze.  _She_  was the one who saw reality as it was, not as Emrys clearly wanted it to be.

Damn them all.

It took her a long while to calm down. When her reason returned, however, it was accompanied by just the quietest little whisper of doubt. What if Anhora was right?

No. No, that was abject stupidity. Emrys chose the King, and Emrys had chosen poorly. She didn't know what had possessed him to latch onto Uther Pendragon's son, but latch he had.

On an impulse, Nimueh glided to her scrying bowl. One spell later, an image (complete with sound) appeared.

Cornelius Sigan had enchanted the castle at the heart of his citadel so that no one could scry within its walls. Cornelius Sigan had died long ago, though, and while his anti-scrying spells had been maintained for a very long time, that had obviously come to an end when the Purge began. There were a few places in the castle that Nimueh could not spy—the physician's chambers being one such place—but her target was in his bedroom, pacing from wall to wall while his deluded fool of a guardian watched.

"I've never seen him with that expression," Arthur Pendragon said. He spun on his heel, began another lap around his bedroom. "If I didn't know better…." He shook himself. "Well, Merlin, I don't suppose you have any brilliant ideas?"

"Um…. We could ask Geoffrey?"

Arthur stopped pacing in favor of gawking at him.

Merlin flushed.

"That's actually not a bad idea," Arthur said slowly.

Merlin grinned, his blush gone. "See? I told you I'm useful to have around."

Nimueh continued to watch them as they ambled through the hallways to the library, where old Geoffrey of Monmouth was hunched over a book in Latin.

After exchanging the mandatory pleasantries, Arthur got down to business. Always direct, that one. "Geoffrey, I'm looking for information about a spellbinder named Nimueh. What do you know of her?"

_Well._  Nimueh's eyebrow arched.

Geoffrey fidgeted. He glanced at Merlin as though asking for help, but the warlock simply shrugged, his face innocent and guileless. "We were in the forest and an old man came out of nowhere and told Arthur to ask his father about Nimueh. Then he disappeared and we figured out he was a spellbinder, so Arthur decided to do it, but when he asked Uther—"

" _Thank you_ , Merlin," Arthur interrupted. "My father was busy, so he sent me to ask you."

Geoffrey relaxed. "Ah. If that is the case…. The king dislikes speaking of her, but Nimueh was a dear friend of your mother's before the Purge."

"She was?" Arthur exclaimed.

"Yes. Nimueh was a High Priestess of the Old Religion. She helped Uther win his kingdom back from Vortigern. As a reward, he named her one of his chief advisors about magic. When Ygraine came to court, she was quick to befriend her. They were practically inseparable while she was pregnant with you." The old man's smile faded. "They… the king and Nimueh had a… falling-out… after your mother died. Few people know what exactly it was about, though there were obviously a great many rumors. But it ended in Nimueh storming out in her grief and fury."

Mostly fury, Nimueh thought.

"And then my father began the Purge," Arthur murmured, clearly deep in thought. Nimueh wondered if his thoughtfulness hurt. "Thank you, Geoffrey. That will be all."

Nimueh released the spell.

The priestess was not often faced with doubt. That evening, though, she couldn't help but wonder if….

No.

No. What was she thinking? Had she really considered allowing  _Uther Pendragon's_  son to sit upon the throne of Albion?

_Never_.

He was not the King. Emrys was a fool, that couldn't be helped, but if he saw proof that Arthur Pendragon was not his liege—was not his destiny—then he would choose someone worthy of the crown.

Of course, considering how stubborn Merlin had shown himself to be, the only proof he would accept was Arthur's rotting corpse.

Nimueh shrugged slightly. It was for the warlock's own good; he'd get over it eventually. Perhaps he would thank her one day, once he realized the depths of his stupidity in trusting a Pendragon, for that was a hard and painful lesson that Nimueh herself had only learned through devastation.

So she sat back and began to plan. Her scheme with the unicorn had failed spectacularly, she had to admit. It had had too many opportunities for interference, too many variables. First Arthur had to kill the unicorn, then people had to realize that he was the direct cause of their suffering, then they had to tear him limb from limb.

A smirk crossed the sorceress's mouth as inspiration struck.

Perhaps it was time to try something a little bit more  _direct_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Two Sarcastic Young Males Encounter a Pretty Prancing Unicorn in the Woods and Neither Takes the Opportunity to Make an Obvious 'Virgin Maid' Joke at the Other's Expense."
> 
> So the unicorn is fine, and not (just) because I'm trying not to drag this out. Merlin doesn't entirely realize the implications of this because he has no access to the canon verse where 'Emrys' wasn't so active the unicorn was not-so-fine. He knows it's a good thing that Arthur deliberately spared the unicorn-protected it, even, by scaring it away-but he doesn't realize how much of a change this is.
> 
> About Nimueh's apparent beast mastery... Honestly, I don't think that she was responsible for the griffin and unicorn in the show. Maybe she was and I just didn't notice. However, she is behind them in this verse because I'm trying to create a (slightly) less monster-of-the-week, more problems-connected-by-a-unifying-malicious-force storyline in order to create a more concrete ending. Hopefully that makes sense.
> 
> Next update: We learn what Nimueh is up to this time, Merlin does some deep thinking, and Gwen gets another POV. 
> 
> -Antares


	33. Fighting Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur goes after a Questing Beast. Morgana and Gwen hit the books.

Chapter XXXIII: Fighting Fate

"Arthur, please."

"Morgana…."

"I'm not being ridiculous. You know I'm not. You know it's a very real possibility."

"It's a real possibility for my knights, too, not to mention the rest of its victims. I have to do this, Morgana."

"Sire," Gwen interjected, "if you fall, Cenred will have a claim to Camelot. That will mean war."

Arthur shook his head, stubborn as a mule. "And if I cower in my castle while my people suffer, then I'll be no better than Cenred."

Morgana and Gwen exchanged exasperated looks. Merlin sighed, tempted to join them, tempted to tell them it wouldn't work. He knew Arthur well enough by now to guarantee it.

Besides, if Arthur didn't go, then Merlin didn't go, and if Merlin didn't go, no one would be able to kill the blasted Questing Beast. Not to mention the possibility of another sort of danger….

Merlin strongly suspected that Nimueh was involved with the Questing Beast's attacks. They usually stayed away from people, Gaius said, but this one had gone through three separate villages, destroyed a granary, and frightened several families out of their homes. Oh, the creatures appeared at times of great change, but usually they were glimpsed by lone travelers on the road, families in the field, hunters in the wood, not dozens or hundreds of people at once. (Well, okay, technically the largest group of people who had simultaneously seen the creature numbered one hundred seventy-seven. That was close enough to 'hundreds,' right?) The point was, the Questing Beast was acting strangely, and considering Nimueh's previous antics, it wasn't much of a stretch to conclude that she had something to do with it.

"You'll be bitten if you go," Morgana said, with a terrible quiet certainty. "The Questing Beast's bite means death, Arthur. If you go, you'll die."

Arthur huffed. "Nice to see you have such faith in my fighting skills."

Morgana grit her teeth. Her fingers twitched as though she was fighting the urge to reach out and strangle her foster brother. "You can't kill this thing. It's a creature of magic, you  _know_  that. You can't win this."

"I hardly think—"

" _No_!" Morgana grabbed his arm, fingers digging into his flesh. "No, Arthur, you  _can't_ win this, I know it, I  _know_  you can't win. Please stay home, Arthur, please." Were those tears in her eyes? Yes, they were.

Arthur shot an uncharacteristically helpless look at Merlin, who returned the expression. "I'll protect him," the manservant said.

"Yes," Arthur said quickly, "that's right. If it comes after me I'll just throw Merlin at it."

"Hey!"

Morgana glared. "Don't even joke about that, Arthur Pendragon." She swallowed hard. "It's a creature of magic, Arthur. You can't kill it without magic. Let your warlock kill it."

Miracle of miracles, Arthur hesitated at that. Only for a moment, but it was still hesitation. Merlin was impressed. Then the prince explained, "First off, he's not  _my_  warlock, and I can't risk the lives of my people on the whims of some mad spellbinder who's taken a bizarre liking to me. Besides, how do you know he knows anything about magical creatures?"

"Because he's fought them before," said Morgana.

Merlin froze.

"Remember the griffin from last summer?" Morgana asked. "A farmer came in talking about a man-eating monster approaching Camelot, but it never showed up. It just disappeared."

The prince shifted. "It could have died of natural causes," he pointed out. "That's not proof that my spellbinder killed it."

"But it's suspicious, don't you think? A creature of magic gets too close to Camelot and dies."

"Came too close to Camelot," Arthur repeated, seizing the opportunity. "There's no guarantee that he'll follow…." But his words trailed off into silence, and a pensive frown adorned his face. Finally, he conceded, "If the spellbinder decides to help me  _again_ , I'll let him. Is that enough for you?"

Merlin's grin could have split his face.

Morgana's expression was more subdued, but before she could say anything, Leon strode into the hallway. "The knights are ready to depart, sire," he reported.

The lady crumpled. " _Please_ ," she whispered one final time.

"I'll see you when I get back," Arthur replied.

"I'll protect him," Merlin murmured, lingering a few moments. "I promise, Morgana, I'll do everything in my power to keep him safe."

"Thanks," she mumbled, but her heart wasn't in it. "You're a good person, Merlin. Never let that change."

"Right," he mumbled. "Thanks. I'll do that." And he scurried after Arthur.

Their horses and fellow fighters were awaiting them in the courtyard. Merlin attached his bag to the saddle before climbing onto this old bay mare. Everyone else's saddlebags had been attached, but Merlin didn't want to risk someone opening his. He couldn't fit his stave, but his druid clothing was incriminating enough. Probably.

As he and his king-to-be rode through the streets of Camelot, Merlin let his mind wander. At first he considered the implications of Arthur promising to let 'his' spellbinder (not Merlin's favorite appellation, but the prince hadn't given up the name Emrys yet, so it would have to do) go free, but then his thoughts shifted to Morgana. He didn't like seeing her like that, so afraid and desperate. It gave him a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, and not just because of her chilling, unfortunately infectious certainty that Arthur would meet his doom within the next few days. He didn't enjoy seeing her this way.

Actually, Merlin mused, he didn't think he'd  _ever_  seen Morgana behave like this. The bandit army in Ealdor hadn't inspired such fear, nor had the wraith, nor had anything else that he could think of. Maybe she'd acted like this when Arthur went off to retrieve the mortaeus flower, but Merlin rather doubted it. Morgana hadn't known about Nimueh, the cockatrice, or the spiders that Arthur still occasionally muttered about (usually when he was annoyed with Merlin). Was it just that the Questing Beast was a creature of magic? But the wraith was clearly uncanny as well, and she hadn't come to Arthur's tent to beg "Arthur" to step down. And anyways, her fear was heavily mixed with dread and horrified confidence rather than the uncertainty that Merlin and the other villagers had experienced before Kanen's charge.

Something nagged at the back of Merlin's mind, but the more he tried to pin it down, the slipperier it became. Eventually he gave up, pondering instead how he should approach the situation before him.

Should he don his Emrys guise and speak with Arthur? Maybe. It might be difficult to get the prat away, though. They were with knights, not guardsmen, and knights were a bit better at their jobs.

Although that really wasn't saying much….

Well, Leon was here, at any rate. Leon was a lot less oblivious than Arthur (again, not saying much) and there was a very good chance that he'd investigate if Arthur snuck out. While Merlin could take him, he didn't particularly want to. He rather liked the curly-haired knight.

So should he sneak off when they were close to the Questing Beast? That seemed pretty risky.

Well, he had a long time to think about it. Hopefully he'd come up with a plan before it was too late.

* * *

"Morgana?"

The lady did not respond. Gwen slipped inside her chambers anyways, her arms full of books. Her friend didn't notice, for she was sitting at her window, gazing out into the courtyard.

Gwen hated seeing her like this. Morgana wasn't just her mistress, she was her friend as well. A friend cursed with magical dreams, yes, and therefore a dangerous friend to have, but a friend all the same. "I brought you some books," she stated, sitting down beside her. "You didn't actually see Arthur die, right? You just saw him get bitten. Maybe there's a cure somewhere but it's been forgotten over the years and we can rediscover it in one of these." She patted the tome in her lap.

Morgana arched a brow as she glanced at the books. "That's hardly likely, Gwen."

"Perhaps not, but it's better than just  _waiting_  here for the worst."

"…I suppose." Morgana tore her eyes away from the window. "Where did you get these?"

Gwen flushed. "I told Geoffrey that Gaius had sent me to fetch any books that might have information about the Questing Beast, just in case he missed something."

Morgana's eyes went wide. "You did what?"

Gwen grinned sheepishly. "Well," she mumbled, somewhat defensive, "I didn't think he'd let me take them if I didn't say something like that, and maybe Gaius  _did_  miss something, but he's not really looking for anything he's missed because he thinks he hasn't missed anything, so we ought to instead."

Her friend's lips twitched. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. This isn't the first time you've displayed your diabolical cunning."

"Excuse me?"

"Remember the rubies?"

"I'm not diabolical!"

"I'm certain."

"How is it diabolical to want to protect my friends?"

Morgana chuckled. "I suppose you're right."

Gwen smiled back, glad that she'd taken her dearest friend's mind off her troubles, glad that they could perhaps find a way to help their companions.

A year ago, she would never have expected to call Prince Arthur her friend. He was… well, Merlin hadn't been lying when he called him a prat. But then Arthur had changed and Gwen had gotten to know him a fair bit better, and she had realized that he actually wasn't half-bad.

It was Ealdor that had changed their relationship. Before, they had been cordial to each other, polite and friendly without really anything more than acquaintances. Perhaps they were a bit more comfortable with each other than they would otherwise have been, for Morgana was dear to them both. They certainly hadn't been on bad terms, though they hadn't exactly been on good terms either.

Then they went to Ealdor and Gwen had scolded him and he had thanked her for it (which she still occasionally had a hard time believing), and they'd started really getting to know each other. They'd spent most of the journey back to Camelot talking, first about swords and armor and then about themselves. Gwen spoke of Elyan and their parents and growing up in Lord Leodegrance's household, and Arthur told her about the two years he'd spent as Sir Ector's fosterling. Morgana and Merlin had sometimes chimed in, but Merlin was quieter than usual, melancholy about leaving home, and Morgana had taken it upon herself to cheer him. It seemed to have worked—Merlin was certainly more cheerful when they arrived back at Camelot—but Morgana's mission had essentially left Arthur and Gwen with each other.

The maidservant hadn't really expected their new rapport to continue after that journey. After all, Arthur still tried to pretend that he and Merlin weren't friends (though who he thought he was fooling, Gwen had no idea. There was an enormous underground betting pool about when and how Arthur admitted that his servant was more than just a servant. Gwen had ten coins on "within Merlin's second year at Camelot." Morgana thought it would be in Merlin's third year. Rumor had it that even King Uther was in the pool), so he was hardly likely to continue befriending a girl who wasn't even his servant. But the prince had surprised her again. He had made a point of including her in his conversations with Morgana, listening to her frequently stuttered input with a good deal of attention.

So now they were friends, and she had one more reason to save him.

They spent the afternoon pouring through books, skimming the pages for any mention of Questing Beasts. They didn't find anything useful: a couple mentions of how the creature appeared at times of great change, a few references of how its bite was always fatal.

By sunset, they were tired and hungry and more than a little discouraged. Gwen fetched their meals from the kitchen. When she returned, it was to find Morgana staring absently off into space.

"Have you have an idea?" Gwen asked, not really convinced.

Her friend sighed, shook her head. "No. Nothing about how to save Arthur. But I've been thinking. The books say that the Questing Beast is the herald of the new age. Well, there's a Questing Beast running around now, so what's it heralding?"

Gwen frowned, her brow wrinkling in thought. "I hadn't thought about that," she admitted, "but you're right. It's supposed to mean something."

Morgana shrugged. "Unless it's superstition. That's always a possibility."

"But you don't think so."

"Gaius says that the Purge began right after a Questing Beast had been seen in Gedref. I heard him telling Uther about it. And there have been other times…. There was one when Sigan laid the foundations of the city and one in the east just before the Roman invasion. So what's going on now?"

"I don't know," Gwen murmured. "Have you Seen anything in your dreams?"

For once, Morgana didn't wince at the mention of her magic. "I Saw that warlock, the one who saved Arthur from the wraith, the one who's been with me since the beginning. He was stretching his hand toward the sunrise, and all of Camelot was covered in his shadow. I Saw two great birds locked in battle, one dark and one bright. I Saw a man in broken shackles. He looks like Arthur, but he looks like Merlin too. I Saw that stupid road. I'm closer to the fork now, but I've still got a ways to go." She paused, suddenly frowning. "Arthur wears a crown in that vision. Not a prince's crown, a king's crown."

Gwen sucked in a breath. "You think that the Questing Beast signals the start of Arthur's reign?"

Morgana chewed her lip. She rose, began pacing. Gwen watched her with worried eyes. Their food cooled on the table, but neither woman paid it any mind. "I don't know. Maybe. Is that a big enough change to provoke a Questing Beast?"

"I have no idea," her friend admitted. "I suppose it depends…." Her voice trailed off as realization struck like a bolt of lightning. "Oh," she breathed, eyes enormous.

"What is it?"

Now it was Gwen's turn to stand and pace. She didn't meet her lady's gaze, paid no attention to the world outside her head. "Last time a Questing Beast was seen, Uther banned magic," she whispered.

Morgana froze, immediately realizing the implications. "Arthur is becoming more sympathetic," she breathed.

"He is."

Morgana's pacing became quicker, more agitated. "But it can't be that. The Questing Beast is going to bite him, and it's supposed to be invariably fatal."

"Supposed to be," Gwen reminded her, hope fluttering behind her ribs. "He was wearing a  _king's_  crown, you said?"

The Seer froze, her green eyes huge with shock. "And I've been having that vision for months. Again and again for  _months_ , Gwen."

"So there has to be a cure," the maid breathed. "A cure, Morgana!"

Her friend's face lit up in joy and wonder. "A cure," she murmured, suddenly hopeful. "You truly think so."

"What else could it be?"

"I suppose I could have interpreted things wrong—"

"But you don't think so either."

"No," she said, looking once again at the books. Her jaw tightened with determination. "Come on."

Their renewed optimism lasted through the night. They stayed up late, pouring over the books by candlelight until an owl hooted outside and they finally realized the time.

Gwen didn't realize how tired she was until she arrived home. Her dad had waited up for her, concern in his eyes. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Dad," Gwen assured him, leaning over to bestow a quick kiss on his cheek. "I just lost track of time, that's all."

"And you're worried about them," her father guessed.

Gwen flushed. "Well, yes. Morgana and I were researching the Questing Beast."

Tom winced. "That might not have been the best idea, sweetheart," he told her. "She has enough nightmares already."

"Perhaps you're right," Gwen admitted, mentally kicking herself for not thinking of that. Not that it would have mattered, of course, what with her dreams being prophetic, but surely she had  _some_ mundane nightmares, right? Gwen told herself to remember to ask

"You've at least eaten, right?"

"Of course," she said, smiling. Her smile didn't last long, however, for a yawn welled up in her throat.

"Go to bed, Gwen," her father advised.

"Okay." She embraced him briefly. "Night, Dad. I love you."

"Night, Gwen. I love you too."

She dreamed of Arthur that night, Arthur upon his father's throne, but he was covered in bite marks that dripped red onto his clothes, his seat, the floor. Yet no matter how much he bled, his flesh never paled, nor did his eyes dim.

What kind of king would he be? Gwen pondered that question as she made her way back to the palace. A good one, she thought, for he put the good of his people before himself. Uther cared for exactly two other people: Arthur, his son, and Morgana, the daughter he'd never had. Uther wouldn't care if the rest of the world burned so long as they remained safe. Arthur, though, would do everything in his power to protect as many people as possible, regardless of the consequences. Yes, the prince still had a lot to learn—as Morgana put it, he was something of a blockhead—but between her and Merlin and the natural process of growing up, he was getting a bit better. Slowly, but progress was progress no matter how slow.

"How did you sleep?" she asked Morgana upon entering the lady's chambers. Her friend was already awake, sitting at the window in her nightgown with a book in her lap. Without another word, Gwen offered her a plate of fruit and cheese and porridge. Morgana accepted it with a smile and a murmur of thanks. She was in a much better mood this morning, Gwen noted, alive with a secret optimism.

"I slept very well," she said. "I was on the road again with my warlock." (Gwen did not comment on her phrasing, but she couldn't help a quick grin.) "He refused to tell me what was going on, of course, but he did say that he'd be by Arthur's side when he found the Questing Beast." The lady's lips curved up, her green eyes lit from within. "And he said that we could talk more about it in the waking world."

It was a good thing Gwen had already put down their plates, because she would have dropped everything at that. "You're going to meet him?" she breathed.

"That's what I said," Morgana whispered back, eyes bright with excitement and hope. "He just smiled at me like he knows something I don't, which he probably does."

"This is wonderful," Gwen told her. And it was: Arthur would live, her friend would soon receive professional magical health from a powerful warlock, and it was entirely possible that the Purge would end and people like Morgana and sweet little Mordred wouldn't have to live in fear anymore. Arthur was just a bit blockheaded, but give him a sensible queen and good advisors and he would make a truly great king.

"Do you think that your warlock knows a cure?" Gwen asked.

"Maybe, or maybe your brilliant idea paid off and we'll find a cure."

"Maybe," Gwen acquiesced, reaching for another book.

The next few days passed in much the same way, though their enthusiasm waned as they poured through books without discovering anything new. Morgana in particular was becoming frustrated. Her dream guide was refusing to say anything about the Questing Beast (or anything else, for that matter) and she had yet to meet him in the waking world.

On the sixth day after its departure, the hunting party returned. Some of the members were wounded, but none so badly as Prince Arthur Pendragon, who had been bitten by the creature.

"We didn't find a cure," Morgana hissed, dragging Gwen into one of the castle's many hidden crannies. "We looked through every single book, and we didn't find a cure."

Gwen forced herself to sound considerably calmer than she felt. "But you saw him better, Morgana. Arthur will be fine. Surely that warlock will know what to do."

Across the castle, Merlin Caledonensis burst into his guardian's chambers. "Gaius," he said, eyes wide and frightened, "Arthur's been bitten by the Questing Beast and I don't know what to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Merlin Does Not Come up with a Plan Before It's Too Late"
> 
> Next chapter: We learn what happened on the boys' adventure and Merlin searches for a way to save Arthur's life.
> 
> -Antares


	34. Rain and Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin vs. Nimueh: This Time, It's Personal.

Chapter XXXIV: Rain and Fire

There wasn't anything that could be done to save Arthur. The Questing Beast's bite was invariably fatal, inescapably deadly. Not even magic could save him, so all that they could possibly do was make the prince as comfortable as possible before his passing.

At least, that is what Gaius said. Merlin was of an entirely different opinion.

The bite had to have a cure. It  _had_  to.

His first impulse had been to summon Kilgharrah. He'd nearly done that on the frantic ride back to Camelot, but Leon's competence had prevented him. The Questing Beast was smaller than it should have been, without the spiky crest that it was supposed to have, and the knight had concluded that the creature Arthur (actually Merlin, but he could hardly say that) had killed was a juvenile. If it was a juvenile, Leon pointed out, it might have parents or siblings nearby, so he'd given orders that no one could go anywhere alone. While Merlin could probably have snuck off anyways, doing so was risky. If someone followed him or went looking for him and found Kilgharrah, everything he'd worked for would be over.

Assuming that it wasn't over already.

Merlin forced the thought away. Arthur would survive. He  _would._

On the way back, he'd consoled himself with the thought that Gaius would know what to do. The physician knew more about healing than anyone Merlin had ever met, and he was knowledgeable about creatures of magic as well. Gaius would know what to do.

Gaius had not known what to do, so Merlin would obviously have to find someone who did.

Once again, his initial thought had been to summon Kilgharrah. Then he realized that he couldn't call the dragon in broad daylight, that it would be hours before darkness fell and the city slept. Arthur might not have that time.

Merlin's next idea was to retreat into his room, ply free the loose floorboard, and bring out the inventory of Uther's treasure vault. Many of its items were illusory, the originals stashed in Kilgharrah's cave in the White Mountains, but the dragon was a fast flier and he'd be able to retrieve any item that could magically heal Arthur. Yet there was nothing in the inventory that could work.

So Merlin had resorted to his third option. Hopefully this would be more fruitful than his first attempts. After all, third time's the charm, right?

"Arthur was bitten by the Questing Beast and Gaius says there's no cure and there's nothing in—well, from—Uther's treasure vault that can help. Please tell me you know some secret ritual or something that can save him, because I don't think he has a lot of time left."

"A Questing Beast?" Blaise repeated, incredulous.

"Yes, a Questing Beast. Hadn't you heard about the one terrorizing Gedref? We went after it and it bit Arthur and now he's dying but he can't die and now I'm babbling worse than Gwen."

"Who?" asked the befuddled druid.

"A friend of mine. She babbles. But do you know how to cure the Questing Beast's bite?"

The look in Blaise's eyes was answer enough.

This was a nightmare. It had to be. Surely there was no other explanation for how things had gone so wrong so quickly.

It had been a beautiful day, neither too hot nor too cool, with a gentle breeze rustling the leaves. There had been sunshine and butterflies and happily twittering birds, but then they'd found a place where all the birds were silent. They found the mouth of a cave, created by nature and enlarged by something with huge claws.

The sensible thing to do (as Merlin had told Arthur several times) would have been to set up an ambush at the mouth of the cave. The Questing Beast gets thirsty, comes out of its den, and is immediately fallen upon by knights with axes and swords and whatnot.

Arthur, being an idiot, had accused Merlin of idiocy before commanding his men to search the cave for other openings. Oh, yes, and they were supposed to split up while searching, even though they had no evidence that the cave was empty and they could easily run into its sharp-toothed, sharp-clawed, extremely dangerous resident at any given moment. Admittedly, Arthur had a couple justifications. The knights were smaller than the Questing Beast, so it made sense to confront the creature in a relatively enclosed area. Additionally, the teams of two knights could easily block off most corridors in a cave this small, and splitting into teams would allow them to cover more ground more efficiently. And anyways, they might find it sleeping.

They did not find it sleeping.

If the Questing Beast really had been immature, then it was a very big, very scary baby. It loomed above them as they rounded a corner, its teeth glinting yellow and red in the light of Arthur's torch. Its hackles were raised, its claws unsheathed, its serpentine hood flared, a snarl emanating from its throat.

Most of its body was feline, covered in dark-spotted fur, but the head was all snake, fur giving way to scales somewhere around its throat. Green on top, with paler scales covering its belly. Its tongue was forked, its fangs full of poison. The Questing Beast's teeth were hollow, Gaius had said, but the strength of the enamel made up for its thinness. Full of magically strengthened poison, they were the monster's most dangerous weapon.

A sensible person would have backed away slowly. Arthur, not being a sensible person, had decided that the dangerous venomous creature of magic didn't look that scary and that he should charge at it by himself rather than escape, regroup, and form some sort of plan with the knights who had been sent with him specifically to help him fight the blasted Questing Beast.

It had been a short, brutal fight, with Arthur hacking at the creature with his sword and the beast snapping its huge fangs at him. Then Arthur was down and Merlin levitated a blue-burning sword through the monster's neck, severing its head from its body.

What had happened next was almost a blur. Leon said that the knights had heard him shouting at Arthur to wake up, that they had followed the noise to find him shaking his prince's unconscious body. They'd had to drag him away from his future king, his friend. Then came the hard fast ride to Camelot, with one knight sent ahead on their fastest horse to make Gaius aware of the situation (something Merlin had not remembered when he first asked for the physician's advice) and the rest following as quickly as they dared.

"Okay," Merlin breathed. He was pacing now, though he didn't know when he'd started. "Do you know someone who might know about Questing Beasts?"

"Another druid might, but it would take a long time to relay my request for information."

Eight steps one way, turn, eight steps the other way. "Does the Questing Beast have any natural enemies?"

"Not to my knowledge."

Merlin's pace increased. He had been hoping that there was some sort of creature that—wait. Wait.

The warlock closed his eyes. He had never tried to communicate with someone from such a distance before and would need all his concentration. " _Anhora, can you hear me?"_

A few long moments of silence, then a small voice in his mind. " _Emrys?_ "

Merlin strengthened the connection, throwing some of his own magic Anhora's way so that the Keeper could speak more clearly. (Later, he would wonder how he did that, because he really had no idea.) " _Is it true that unicorns have powerful healing magic?"_

" _It is,"_ the Keeper confirmed. " _Why do you ask?"_

" _Arthur has been bitten by the Questing Beast."_

Merlin sensed Anhora's sharp intake of breath.  _"That is grave news indeed,"_  the older spellbinder professed.

" _The stories say that unicorns have powerful healing magic. Is that true?"_

" _It is, though I know not if they are powerful enough to overcome the bite of a Questing Beast. Magic requires a balance, Emrys. For a life to be spared, another must be taken."_

" _The Questing Beast's life was taken. Will that work?"_

There was no response. Anhora hesitated so long that Merlin worried he'd lost their connection. Finally, the elder spellbinder admitted, " _I think…. I do not know for certain, but a great deal of magic is convincing reality to see things your way, as it were. If anyone can use the magic so, it is you. Perhaps it will be enough."_

" _And if it's not…?"_

Once again, Anhora remained silent for a long time. Finally, he quietly said, " _I am old, Emrys, and my heir is ready to take up his appointed task."_

" _But you can't—"_

" _Can you control the power of life and death?"_

" _I can,"_ Merlin remembered.  _"There was a Sidhe—"_

" _If the unicorn's magic requires a life to balance that of Arthur Pendragon, the sacrifice must be willing. I am willing, Emrys."_

" _So am I."_

"No."

The sound of a voice—a true voice, not a whisper in his mind—startled Merlin into opening his eyes. Anhora stood before him, his face solemn. "You have your entire life ahead of you, and your destiny outshines mine as the sun outshines the stars. I am the Keeper of the Unicorns, yes, but no unicorn has ever knelt before me. I am not the first ray of dawn. I am not the greatest hope of our people. I am not magic's champion, Merlin Emrys." He knelt, head bowed, like one of Uther's courtiers paying his respects.

"I am not magic's champion.  _You_  are."

"Please get up," Merlin begged. His cheeks were burning.

Smiling, Anhora rose. The smile faded. Blue eyes went wide with alarm. "Duck!" he cried.

Merlin ducked, but not quickly enough. A force grasped him, flung him like a child's doll into—through—the walls of Blaise's hut. The force of his impact knocked the breath from him, left a visible indent in the ground.

He lay there for a time, panting in an effort to refill his lungs. He knew he had to do something about the attack, about the attacker, but it was hard to move when he was bruised and battered and probably full of splinters. Still, with a great effort of will, he forced himself onto his belly, his knees, his feet.

Blaise's hut was burning, the flames growing with alarming rapidity. The sight and scent of the fire startled him out of his daze.

Blaise was nowhere in sight. Anhora lay unmoving on the floor, his white robes dangerously close to the flames. Horrified, the younger warlock ran to him.

" _Astrice_!"

" _Scildan_!" Merlin yelped instinctively, throwing up his arms. Pure force met golden-tinged resistance, causing the hastily conjured shield to ripple in midair. The hostile spell dissipated, giving Merlin enough time to catch a glimpse of his foe.

Nimueh. Of course it was Nimueh. The sorceress's eyes burned like the fire near Anhora's crumpled form, golden and furious. Her dark hair was loose and wild, her white teeth bared in a feral snarl.

She looked like she had finally snapped.

"Why are you doing this?" Merlin yelled. Another  _astrice_ collided with his shield spell. The rippling was more pronounced this time, a few hairline cracks appearing at the point of impact. Merlin swallowed hard, pumped more energy into his protection.

"Because Arthur Pendragon is not your destiny," Nimueh spat. "He is your enemy.  _Our_  enemy!  _Why_  can you not understand that?" Her power slammed against the shield. Merlin's knees buckled, but he stayed on his feet. Sweat trickled down his brow, stinging eyes that burned golden with power.

"He is my king," the warlock declared. "The prophecies—"

"You stupid boy, didn't you know that Emrys chooses the king?"

"What?" Merlin pulled up short.

"You are the Kingmaker," she hissed. "You are the true power of Albion, for you choose who sits in its throne."

No one had said anything about him choosing the Once and Future King. Kilgharrah hadn't. Neither had the druids. Gaius hadn't either, back when he'd confessed to Merlin that he'd been trying to research the old tales so he could be well-informed when he told his ward about the Albion Cycle. Yet Nimueh seemed utterly convinced of her assertion, completely certain she was right.

What if she was?

Time seemed to slow, though there was no magic involved. Merlin's mind simply sped up, presenting him with fragments of memory. A prince in Ealdor, out of place but determined to help. Defying Uther to retrieve the mortaeus flower. Staring at the unicorn with doubt in his eyes, firing at its feet to frighten it away from Camelot. Laughing with Morgana. A blossoming friendship with Gwen. Leon's quiet respect. Speaking with Lancelot, telling him that he should be a knight, hinting that perhaps, when Arthur sat the throne, he would be. Looking back at Edwin Muirden over two goblets of wine. Softly thanking the spellbinder—the enemy—who had guided him home with a globe of light.

Those were the times that Merlin saw what kind of man his prince was becoming, what kind of king he would be.

The warlock's shoulders squared as he drew himself to his full height. His eyes blazed their native gold. "If I am the Kingmaker, if I choose who sits upon the throne of Albion… then I choose Arthur Pendragon."

Nimueh screamed in pure fury. The force of her wordless, formless attack shattered Merlin's shield, sent him flying back into a tree. His head ached, ears ringing from the force of the blow, but somehow he landed on his feet. He wasn't balanced particularly well, but he was on his feet.

" _I will never bow to Uther Pendragon's son!_ " the sorceress screamed, her hands full of flame. She clapped them together, and a huge stream of fire shot out towards Merlin. The warlock gasped out a shield spell, but the flames just kept coming.

His shield was trembling, flickering, about to go out.

For the first time, Merlin well and truly understood why Gaius and Kilgharrah were so insistent on keeping him away from Nimueh. Perhaps he had more raw power than her, though it didn't feel like that with her magic pounding at his defenses. But that didn't make Nimueh weak, not by a long shot, and she was a thousand times more skilled. Had he been training hard for this past year? Yes. Was he gifted, quick, with a deep reservoir of powerful instinct? Yes. But Nimueh was powerful and skilled and experienced, and he was no match for her.

And yet he had to be.

Arthur. Gwen. Morgana. Gaius. He remembered the afanc, the griffin. He thought of what might have happened had Arthur killed the unicorn that Nimueh had stolen, of all the people she had hurt and would hurt again if he didn't stop her.

The shield stopped flickering.

And Blaise and Anhora were here, immediately in danger, because of him. Blaise only lived in this hut (risking his life every day, a fact that continually haunted the back of Merlin's mind) because he'd agreed to teach Merlin. Anhora had come at his request. If Merlin hadn't asked for his help, the Keeper of the Unicorns would be safe in Gedref now, watching his charges in peace rather than risking fire and death.

Merlin lifted his head, eyes ablaze with gold.

And time stopped.

Flames froze in mid-leap. The golden shield keeping them at bay disappeared, vanishing from existence when it was no longer needed.

He couldn't hold this for too long. Emrys or not, he had his limits—limits of which he was acutely aware now, with Nimueh's assault so fresh. So Merlin ran towards where he'd last seen Anhora. The Keeper wasn't there. Horrified, Merlin looked around, sighed with relief when he saw Blaise (bloody and bruised but alive) dragging the older man away.

And yet….

Trapped behind Nimueh's firewall, Merlin hadn't seen how far her flames had spread. Now he could. The hut was completely ablaze, a charred skeleton on the verge of collapse. The brush had lit up in all directions, and several trees were losing their leaves and needles. There was no telling how much destruction this fire could cause if it wasn't stopped.

The warlock bit his lip. He knew the theory, but he'd never actually tried….

Well, he rather had to now.

First things first. There was no way he'd be able to do this while holding time still, and he probably couldn't do it while fighting Nimueh. Yet he couldn't leave, because then she'd remember Anhora and Blaise. She'd hurt them then, he knew. So he could only be a few seconds away from her.

It was a balancing act. He needed enough time to cast the spells and prepare himself for Nimueh's inevitable next attack, but he couldn't go too far away. With that in mind, he jogged over to one of the few trees not wreathed in flame, hid behind its bulk.

Time started again.

" _W_ _æ_ _gfatu, cume æt mé._ "

Heart pounding, a lump in his throat, Merlin looked up at the skies.

It was working. His spell had called the clouds, which were swirling high above him in a vortex of white and gray. Now for the next part.

" _Tídrén!_ "

Nimueh spun around just as the first drops of rain began to fall. " _Astri—"_

" _Gescildan!_ " Merlin spat.

The shield that appeared before him was bright and solid, and Nimueh's attack rebounded off of it.

It was strange, but Merlin felt stronger, fresher, now than when the battle had begun. He should be getting tired by now, but instead he had been invigorated. Perhaps it was just that the shock had worn off, or perhaps he had finally gotten his bearings. Or maybe—just maybe—it was because now he had Arthur's face fresh in his mind, Arthur and everyone else in Camelot, and he could see Blaise and Anhora right there.

Nimueh shrieked in rage, hammering at Merlin's shield in bursts of wordless force. The warlock's lips curled. "Not today," he muttered, and took a step forward.

The shield moved with him.

Some of the fury and madness faded from Nimueh's eyes, replaced by shock. She sent another blast at him, but he just kept walking.

Nimueh began to look worried.

"Give it up, Nimueh," Merlin ordered. "This is not the way."

"You're wrong, Emrys," she whispered. "You damn fool, how can you not see how wrong you are?" Suspicion twisted her features. "Was it  _them_?"

Merlin followed her gesture to Blaise and Anhora, who seemed to be waking up.

"It was them, wasn't it," the sorceress said. The maddened rage was returning to her face, but it was no longer directed at Merlin. She raised her hand, opened her mouth to hiss a spell—a spell that Blaise, with his limited magic, could not hope to block.

"NO!"

Merlin's magic had always been different. It was automatic, instinctive, sometimes fulfilling his needs without spells or even conscious thought. His control had improved immeasurably since arriving in Camelot, but now he needed his natural gifts. Instinct and intent, reflex and resolution, skill and power and just enough intuition to tie it all together.

Lightning.

Blinding white light accompanied by the stink of ozone and a deafening clash of thunder. A woman's scream abruptly cut off.

A charred corpse falling to the ground.

A life taken.

(Merlin's eyes blazed gold.)

A life for a life.

In the heart of Camelot, for the briefest of moments, Arthur Pendragon opened his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: "Wherein Merlin Performs Immensely Powerful Magic Without Quite Realizing How, Exactly, He Is Managing To Do So"
> 
> After this, there's just one chapter ("Panacea") and an epilogue ("The Prince and the Warlock") left, then it's on to The King's Shadow.
> 
> -Antares


	35. Panacea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wounded Crown Prince is kidnapped by a warlock (but don't worry, Merlin gives him back).

Chapter XXXV: Panacea

Uther was in the room.

Well, okay, he wasn't the only one. Gwen and Gaius were there as well, and of course Arthur was passed out on the bed, but Merlin was mostly concerned about the king who would kill him in a heartbeat if he knew how far Merlin had gone to save Arthur's life.

" _Swefne,"_  the warlock breathed.

Uther collapsed, his hand falling from Arthur's. Gwen began to fall, but Merlin strode into the room and caught her before she hit the floor. Only Gaius remained awake. The physician stood, lips curving into a frown. "Merlin, what are you—"

"I found a cure."

Gaius's mouth worked soundlessly for a long moment. Then he choked it out. "A cure? For Arthur?"

"Yes," Merlin said.

The physician stared at him, jaw agape. He took in his ward's form, details he'd missed: the smudges of dirt, the scent of smoke, the wild hair. "What in the world have you been doing?"

"Later." Merlin looked to Arthur. "What matters now is that Anhora is in Kilgharrah's old cave with a unicorn, and while I think that I might have mirrored life and death again when I hit Nimueh with a lightning bolt, we'll probably still need the unicorn's healing magic to make sure the venom is completely out of Arthur's system."

Gaius sank into his chair.

Merlin approached Arthur, whispered the incantation which would lift his prince into the air. It wouldn't be easy levitating an invisible body through the crowded corridors, but Merlin could probably manage it if he kept the older man directly above his head. As long as he could feel where Arthur was, he'd be able to complete the transfer. It was a lot less exhausting than pausing time again, that was for sure.

"I have to put you to sleep, too, Gaius," Merlin sighed. "It would look suspicious if they were enchanted and you weren't."

His mentor looked at Arthur, who was floating so that his shoulders touched the top of Merlin's head. "First make him invisible before—"

The door opened.

"—Morgana gets back," Gaius finished. Color drained from his face.

For a long moment, they simply stood (or, in Gaius's case, sat) there, Morgana with her mouth agape, all three with their eyes wide and frightened. Merlin couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't even breathe.

Finally, Morgana whispered, "Merlin?"

The warlock swallowed hard, trying to moisten his throat.

Morgana glanced over her shoulder, uncertainty writ large in her face. Then, biting her lip, she stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. " _What_  are you doing?"

Somehow, Merlin managed to speak. "This isn't what it looks like."

"So you're not curing him?"

Now it was Merlin's turn to gawk.

"Because it all makes sense now, why some random spellbinder would take on a wraith to save Arthur of all people. But it wasn't random at all, was it, Merlin. It was you." Something like wonder came over her face. "It's always been you."

"He has never hurt anyone with his gifts," Gaius said. "Please, my lady, you must believe that. Gwen and the king are only sleeping."

The woman started. Apparently she hadn't noticed that anyone else was in the room.

"I'm going to save him," Merlin told her. "I have a unicorn—well, I don't have the unicorn, I'm really only borrowing her—but there's a unicorn in Kilgharrah's cave, and they have powerful healing magic and can nullify the Questing Beast's venom. Probably. It's never actually been tested. But Anhora thinks it will work, especially since I might have already mirrored Arthur back from the point of no return, but maybe that's actually a bad thing because I'm not sure if unicorn magic and accidental, unwilling death will mix well."

Morgana stared at him.

Merlin flushed. "So I'm going to just… er… go do that now."

"Right," the lady said slowly.

Merlin coughed. "But do you mind if I put you to sleep for awhile? It's not permanent, I swear, it's just that it would look kind of suspicious if you and Gaius were awake when Gwen and Uther weren't."

"All right," Morgana said, a bit less slowly than before. "Just let me sit down first." She moved over to a chair, settled herself down.

"Ready?"

"Ready."

"Great. It shouldn't last more than an hour, so you likely won't get nightmares.  _Swefne._ "

The spell knocked both Morgana and Gaius out, partly for efficiency and partly because he just knew that Gaius would lecture him about carelessness in their next conversation and would really rather avoid that. Another quick spell rendered Arthur invisible, and he began his descent to Kilgharrah's cave. As always, it was pitifully easy to avoid the guards, who both went chasing after a pair of wandering dice.

Sometimes, Merlin truly wondered how Camelot had ever survived without him.

Then his thoughts turned to something a bit more immediate: the knowledge that Morgana knew. She knew. Uther's ward—hell, she was practically his daughter—she knew he was a warlock. She'd even deduced that he was 'Arthur's' warlock, the one who had risked so much to save him.

And yet, she seemed completely fine with it. With him.

Merlin remembered Ealdor, how she'd promised to help him make Arthur see sense. She'd approved of him helping Mordred, he recalled, and before the disastrous Questing Beast quest, she'd asked Arthur to let Merlin (well, Emrys-Merlin) take care of things rather than risk himself.

He thought of Will and Lancelot then, and he smiled.

He had missed having someone his own age who knew the truth.

Of course, he'd have to convince Gaius that the world wasn't going to end. The poor man would doubtless panic the second he awoke, when Merlin's magic wore off. Hopefully people in magic-induced sleep couldn't get nightmares.

Nightmares. Something about the thought tickled his brain, teased him with a faint hint of its importance. Yet he had no time to pursue that line of questioning, for now he was in Kilgharrah's old cave, walking towards a trio of conjured fireballs.

The choice of illumination surprised him. One would think that after nearly burning to death, Anhora (or Blaise, he wasn't certain who was casting the spell) would be a bit less enthusiastic about open flames. But the flames served their purpose well enough, and he made a beeline to the two older spellbinders.

Blaise was smudged with soot and was wearing a new tunic, as his old one had caught fire while he rescued Anhora. The Keeper of the Unicorns was slightly worse off, his pale robe spotted with blood and ash, his face swelling up where it had impacted the ground. Both men smelled of smoke.

By contrast, the unicorn appeared lovelier than ever. Its coat was molten moonlight; its eyes, the soul of midnight. The flame sparkled along its horn, making it look like a column of rainbow. The creature lowered that gleaming horn, dark eyes downcast in the equine equivalent of a bow. Then it was approaching him—more importantly, approaching Arthur—and Merlin restored the prince's visibility as he lowered him into his arms, absently noting how heavy he was. Clearly he hadn't been comatose long enough to lose weight.

Then the unicorn was there, and every sarcastic thought flew out of Merlin's mind. He turned Arthur ever so slightly, undoing the prince's bandages with a thought and a flicker of gold. The unicorn made a soft whickering sound of approval as it lowered its shining horn onto the exposed wound.

Merlin held his breath.

The wound closed. The unicorn shook itself, mane cascading all down its neck, and nuzzled Arthur's face with its soft nose.

The prince opened his eyes.

Merlin's heart nearly failed him. Morgana was one thing but Arthur? No. Not going to happen.

" _Swefne_."

Arthur went limp.

"It seems to have worked," Anhora observed.

Merlin's eyes went wide with the realization. He hadn't thought of it during that half-second that Arthur was staring at the unicorn, but Anhora was right. It  _did_  seem to have worked.

Which meant that Arthur was cured. Which meant that he was going to live.

Merlin's smile threatened to split his face. "I think you're right," he whispered, eyes bright with glee. "Thank you." He turned to the unicorn. "You too. Hell, you three, Blaise."

"I did nothing," the mildly startled druid pointed out.

"You saved Anhora's life, and talking to you inspired me to contact him," the younger man pointed out. "All three of you—thank you so much.  _Thank you_." If he hadn't been holding Arthur, he would have hugged them.

The two older spellbinders exchanged amused little half-smiles. "We are glad to have helped," Anhora said, Blaise nodding his agreement. "But now I must return my charge to Gedref, and you ought to return our Once and Future King before anyone notices he is missing."

That pulled Merlin up short. "Oh, right," he acknowledged. "But—just—words can't express how much I owe you."

"You and your prince will set our people free," Anhora reminded him. "You owe me no debt for my small part."

"I do, actually, but even if I didn't, I'd still be as grateful as I am now."

Anhora's lips twitched. He beckoned for the unicorn, which obeyed his summons without hesitation. "If that is the case, then you are very welcome… Lord Emrys."

"I'm not a—"

But the Keeper and his charge were gone.

"We can talk tomorrow," Blaise said, laughter dancing in his eyes. He looked tired, though, so Merlin nodded.

"Right. I'll see you then."

Once Arthur was yet again invisible and balanced atop Merlin's head, the warlock made his way back into the castle proper. Though he couldn't have been gone for more than half an hour, the atmosphere had changed dramatically. Before, the halls had been quiet, full of tension and grief. Now there were guards and knights bustling hither and thither, clearly on the verge of panic. It reminded Merlin of a kicked anthill, but much noisier.

"What's going on?" he asked the nearest guardsman, hoping that it wasn't what he thought it was.

"Someone kidnapped Arthur. Do you know—"

"No," Merlin said, standing just a little straighter. He levitated Arthur slightly higher so that the prince's invisible weight wouldn't press down on his hair. "I have no idea where Arthur might be if he's not in his chambers. I've been—I've been scouring the marketplace for exotic herbs that might help him."

But the guard had left after his first syllable, presumably to ask other servants if they'd seen anything suspicious. Perhaps there was hope for the guards yet.

Arthur's room was full of knights scouring every inch of the chamber, led by a tight-jawed Sir Leon. While Merlin could probably put them all to sleep before returning Arthur, there was a huge possibility that he would miss someone or that another person would enter as the spell left his lips.

So, with a soft sigh, he laid his trap.

The fight with Nimueh—not to mention semi-accidentally mirroring life and death again—had drained him, but he still had enough magic for a few simple spells. With that in mind, Merlin retreated to the abandoned barracks in the eastern wing, which had served so well during the afanc's plague. He laid Arthur down upon the old cots and whispered the spell that had become his signature.

By the time Leon arrived, following the plainly magical globe of light to its source, Merlin had donned his Emrys guise. The head knight froze in the threshold, his quickly darting eyes taking in the warlock, the (illusory, but he didn't know that) staff, the sleeping prince. His hand twitched towards his sword.

Merlin raised his hands in a gesture of peace. "He's alive," the warlock assured the knight. "And he'll stay that way."

Leon took a hesitant step into the room, his hand still upon his sword-hilt. Behind him milled a trio of uncertain knights not entirely comfortable with following their commander's lead.

"You're the one who fought the wraith."

Merlin inclined his head. "My name is Emrys."

"Emrys," Leon repeated. "Why are you protecting him?"

There was no need to name the 'him.'

Merlin looked Leon dead in the eye. "Because he is the best hope for peace between our peoples. I want the killings to stop."

One of the knights snorted. "Tell that to your kin, sorcerer," he sneered.

"I have," Merlin retorted coolly. "And if you'd been paying any attention, you would have noticed by now that my kin are helping yours. They're tired of this war too."

"What exactly did you do with Prince Arthur?" Leon interrupted. He'd taken several steps closer over the past few moments and now stood halfway between the door and Arthur's bedside—and Merlin, who stood just past the headboard.

Merlin stepped aside. "Unicorn magic—panacea. It negated the Questing Beast's venom."

Leon was close enough now to see the slight rise and fall of Arthur's chest. His eyes were wide with shock, with disbelief, with something that looked a lot like wonder. "You really did it," he breathed.

The warlock smiled. "Technically that was the unicorn, but I know what you mean."

"Thank you," Leon said, very quietly. Merlin doubted that the other knights even heard.

The warlock's smile widened. "You're welcome."

Time paused. The knights froze in mid-step, their breathing silenced. Only Merlin, dropping the illusion of Emrys, moved.

When time started up again, he was gone.

* * *

Morgana waited until Gwen was gone before she slipped into the halls.

The castle was surprisingly quiet, considering that the Crown Prince of Camelot had disappeared (and reappeared) just a few hours before. Morgana had two close run-ins with the guards, but the fortress had enough conveniently placed alcoves for her to slip into whenever she had to. Later on, she'd have to tell Uther about that, but for now, she was simply grateful.

Merlin and Gaius were waiting up for her, their chambers illuminated by a half-dozen candles. The flickering firelight caught Merlin's eyes, made them flash gold—or perhaps that was Morgana's imagination, now that she knew what he was.

"Thank you for not telling," Merlin said softly. He was looking at her sideways, partly inquisitive, mostly hopeful.

"You're welcome," she replied. "But honestly, it was the least that I could do. You saved my friend's life, Merlin, and this isn't even the first time." She frowned. "Just out of curiosity, how many times  _have_  you saved him?"

A sheepish grin. "I sort of lost count."

Morgana grinned back. "Why does that not surprise me?"

Gaius cleared his throat. "If we could return to the original topic…?"

Morgana frowned at him. "I'm not going to betray Merlin," she vowed. "He's a good person and good for Camelot and besides, that would be hypocritical since I have magic too."

Merlin sat down hard, his eyes widening to comic proportions. "You—what—I don't—really?"

"Not like yours," Morgana clarified, "but… you know my nightmares?"

"She's a Seer, Merlin," Gaius explained.

The Seer in question whirled on him. "You knew? You knew what I was and didn't tell me?"

Gaius looked old then, so very old and tired. "I didn't want you to live in fear," he explained quietly. "I thought that you would be happier if you thought your dreams were mundane. How long have you known about them?"

"Almost a year," Morgana confessed, "though Gwen and I were suspicious for a long time before that."

"Gwen?" Gaius yelped.

"She has never said a word to anybody, and before you ask, no, I didn't tell her about Merlin. It's not my secret to tell."

The physician sagged with relief. "I'm sorry," he told her. "It's just that Merlin is so very reckless with his secret, and… I have seen what happens to people like him." He shuddered involuntarily. "So have you."

She had. She remembered the reek of burning flesh, scorch marks on the cobblestones. When Gaius put it like that, it was very hard to remain angry with him for keeping his knowledge about her dreams to himself or for remaining paranoid about Merlin.

By this point, the warlock in question had recovered enough of his faculties to form a coherent sentence. "That's how you knew he'd be bitten, isn't it?"

"I dreamed it," Morgana confirmed. "And I've dreamed of other things, Merlin. You."

"Me?"

"You," the lady confirmed. "I didn't know it was you at first, since you were in that disguise of yours, but you've shown up in this recurring dream I've been having for probably more than a year now."

"A recurring dream?" Gaius asked, one eyebrow shooting skywards.

Morgana nodded. "We're standing on a path. It's covered in pits and ruts, and it splits not far from where we're standing. We get a bit closer to the fork every time, and we've talked, but you refuse to give me any coherent answers." Her lips twitched. "Maybe that will change now that I know it's you."

"What lies beyond the fork?" Gaius wanted to know.

"Arthur is on one side, and there's a blond woman on the other. I don't know who she is, but I'm obviously going to choose between her and Arthur at some point, so I imagine we're going to meet soon." She sighed heavily. "I've never met another Seer—well, not that I know about—so I'm not particularly good with interpreting these dreams."

"I bet there'll be lots of Seers at the summit," Merlin said. He was standing now, a brilliant smile lighting up his entire face. "You should come, Morgana. My parents will be there—they're going to get married there—and so will some Vates and a bunch of druids and other magical folk. Maybe your dream lady will make an appearance."

Morgana goggled at him. "There's a secret spellbinder meeting?"

"There will be," Merlin explained. "I don't think it's actually happened in the past, but in just a few weeks, a bunch of us will go to the Isle of the Blessed to discuss how we can end the Purge. You really should come, Morgana, at least for a couple of days. Blaise thinks I'll have the teleportation spell under control then, so I can bring you for a day trip or two." Impossibly, his smile widened even further. "And then I can introduce you to some druid Seers and Vates and probably Kilgharrah, too, and they can help you with your visions. What do you think, Morgana? Do you want to come?"

Other Seers and a chance to end the Purge. "I'd  _love_  to."

Merlin's smile changed, becoming quieter but no less heartfelt. "So would I."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate Chapter Title: "Wherein Merlin Comes up with the Brilliant Idea of Introducing Morgana and Kilgharrah, Which Can in No Way Backfire Horribly"
> 
> In Merlin's defense, though, the dragon hasn't said a word to him about Morgana's destiny-or Mordred's either, for that matter. Merlin knows he has adversaries, but he doesn't know their (supposed?) identities.
> 
> Next chapter: The epilogue, Arthur's POV. 
> 
> -Antares


	36. Epilogue: The Prince and the Warlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation.

Epilogue: The Prince and the Warlock

Arthur stood alone in the abandoned east barracks.

This is where Leon and his men had found him three days ago, back when he'd been recovering from the Questing Beast's bite. This is where he'd woken up, dazed and confused and more than a little surprised to be alive. This is where Leon had told him what had happened, how Camelot had reacted to the near-loss of its prince.

This is where Emrys had last been seen.

Arthur had only vague half-memories of his sickness. He remembered Guinevere's sweet, gentle voice; Morgana's sharper admonitions that he wasn't allowed to die, he couldn't; his father's despair, his voice all choked with tears; Merlin telling Gaius that there had to be a way, if only they could find it. But his consciousness had faded as time had passed, and the only thing he could recall of the last half-day before his awakening was a glimpse of a pale equine head crowned with a gleaming crystal horn.

That memory must have been real, Leon had told him, for Emrys claimed that a unicorn had purged the Questing Beast's curse from his body. Magic had brought him nigh unto death, yes, but magic had saved him as well.

Arthur wasn't quite certain how he felt about that.

When the warlock's sleep spell had worn off, Uther had immediately forbidden any mention of what had happened. It was too late. He and the other sleepers hadn't awakened for hours, and while they were unconscious, word had spread from the knights who'd witnessed Emrys's explanations to the guards to the servants to the streets of the city. Everyone knew, just as they knew that a warlock had fought a wraith in Arthur's stead and that the druids were stepping out of the shadows.

Uther had been torn between relief that his son was awake and alive (and maybe a bit of gratitude, too, though of course he'd never admit it) and teeth-gnashing fury that he was losing his grip. He'd treated Arthur well, frequently expressing joy at the younger Pendragon's "miraculous" recovery, but refusing to acknowledge that magic had been involved. Everyone else, though, knew to walk lightly around the king. Even Merlin was on his best behavior, though he grumbled about it whenever Uther's back was turned.

With a sigh, Arthur sat down on the bed where the spellbinder had put him. "I'm not sure why I'm doing this," he confessed to the empty room. "You didn't show up yesterday or the day before, and how the hell would you even know I'm here? I haven't told anyone that I keep coming back. This is ridiculous." Huffing, he pushed himself to his feet, made his way to the door. This  _was_  ridiculous, and he would go back to his room and never return.

"So you don't want to talk, then?"

Very slowly, Arthur turned back around.

Emrys leaned against the wall, his hood down, a gem-tipped staff in his hand. Arthur couldn't decipher the other man's expression, but he thought he caught a glimpse of amusement in those eerie yellow eyes.

"Why are you doing this?" he finally managed. "I'm a Pendragon. Why…?"

"Because I want the killings to stop."

"…You want me to legalize magic."

"Yes."

Arthur shook his head, incredulous. "You do know who I  _am_ , correct? Who my father is?"

"Of course I know who you are." A tiny smile curved the spellbinder's lips. "That's why I know you can do this. I know that you always strive to do what's best for your people, what's right, and that if I can show you how  _wrong_  the Purge is, you'll stop it."

"And how am I supposed to do that when my father is still king?"

The warlock sighed. "I'm not going to kill him, if that's what you're asking," he answered quietly. "Well, not unless he charges me with a sword and it's me or him, at any rate, but that's self-defense and not murder. You're a warrior, so I know you understand the difference. I'm not a murderer, Arthur Pendragon."

"And how do I know I can trust you?"

"How do  _I_  know that I can trust  _you_?" Emrys arched his brow in a manner frighteningly reminiscent of Gaius. "I very much doubt that you've never killed one of my kin."

Arthur thought of a long-gone druid camp and winced.

"Open your eyes," Emrys said softly, gently. "You're starting to realize that this is wrong, and I know that it must be difficult but…." He hesitated for a long moment. "My magic first appeared when I was very young," he finally confessed. "To keep me safe, my mother told me about all the horrible things that happened to spellbinders here in Camelot. Your knights and your family, they were the monsters that haunted my nightmares. But then, when I got older, I started to understand that your kin aren't monsters. You're people, scared, angry, confused people. Well,  _my_  kin are people too, Arthur. Just try to remember that, okay?"

He looked so young then, but his eyes were older than the sky. Those wise, ancient eyes bored into Arthur's gaze for a long moment before their owner looked away. He pulled up the hood of his cloak, obscuring half his face in shadow—but his eyes were as bright as ever.

"Thank you," Arthur said, before he could stop himself. "For everything."

Emrys smiled. "Anytime."

Then he was gone, leaving Arthur alone in the abandoned barracks. Or perhaps the prince was not alone, for his mind was full of swirling thoughts, rushing like a river.

He turned to leave, but he only made it to the threshold before he paused, turned back, and raised his hand as if to wave.

"Until we meet again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINITUM EST.
> 
> Book I of The Albion Cycle is complete. Book II will be less episodic than Book I, since by then the AU effects will start to accumulate and I won't be retelling (and, of course, modifying) a lot of episodes from the show. There will be worldbuilding, new characters, and at least one overarching villain to make things difficult for our heroes. There will also be a bit of romance-though I've never actually written romance before and will not be focusing on that aspect of the plot. By the end of Book II, well... let's just say that Camelot will look very different from its Season 2 counterpart.
> 
> Thank you for reading this enormous, out-of-control monster. You guys rock!
> 
> -Antares


End file.
